The receptionist asked for my insurance card before she asked where I was hurting.

Back in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, midnight had arrived.

The seventy-two-hour cooling protocol was complete. The specialized blanket had gradually warmed baby Noah's tiny body back to normal temperature.

Dr. Maya Bennett stood alongside the chief neonatologist, Dr. Marcus Vance, as they prepared to remove the mechanical ventilator.

Rachel sat in a wheelchair beside the crib, holding Mark Vance's hand tightly with her left arm, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"Alright, Rachel," Dr. Marcus said softly. "Noah’s breathing metrics are excellent. His brain EEG scans show zero signs of seizure activity or permanent tissue necrosis. His brain protected itself."

Rachel held her breath as Marcus carefully untaped the breathing tube and slid it out from tiny Noah's throat.

For three agonizing seconds, the room was dead silent. The baby lay still.

Then, Noah’s chest expanded. He gasped, his tiny face screwing up into a furious, bright red mask.

A loud, piercing, healthy cry rang out through the NICU room.

WAHHHH! WAHHHH!

Rachel burst into tears of overwhelming joy, burying her face in her hands. Maya let out a loud laugh, hugging Mark Vance, who was wiping a stray tear from his own eyes.

Dr. Marcus lifted tiny, screaming Noah from the crib, wrapping him in a warm yellow blanket, and placed him directly into Rachel's waiting left arm.

Noah instantly quieted down, feeling the warm skin of his mother’s chest, his tiny head resting right over her beating heart.