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The crying had been going on for hours.
Not the thin, wet cry of a hungry newborn, but a piercing, frantic sound that cut through The Pitt and made every person in earshot wince. Frank had heard it before. Neonatal abstinence syndrome—babies born into withdrawal—wasn’t rare in a city like this. But every time, it still gutted him.
The safe haven baby had been brought in earlier that morning. Only a day old, still fragile, fists balled tight like she was bracing herself against a world that had already betrayed her. Her little body ached for something it couldn’t have.
Even wrapped in a blanket, even after tiny doses of morphine to ease the shakes, she writhed and screamed, her skin mottled and her cry ragged. Her skin was practically tinged pink by the force of her insistent wailing.
The nurses had tried everything—swaddles, pacifiers, rocking, along with the needed tiny doses of morphine. Nothing worked. She screamed until her voice was raw, until she was coughing.
Frank lingered near the doorway, arms folded like he was just overseeing the case. But the truth was, he didn’t know what else to do. He hated that. He hated feeling useless. But even Robby was stumped, thus, no one knew how to go on from there.
And then Mel spoke.
“Skin to skin,” she said to herself. Frank probably wouldn’t have heard her statement if he hadn’t turned to look at her in the Nick of Time. He followed he quietly as she jogged happily into the room.
The nurse holding the squirmy infant looked up confused at the sudden entrance.
But Mel was already moving, tugging her scrub top over her head. The modest, purple sports bra underneath clung to her shoulders, damp with the heat of a long shift, but she didn’t look embarrassed. She looked determined.
“They need more than medicine,” she said simply, reaching out after quickly dousing her hands in hand sanitizer. “Please, let me hold her?”
Frank should’ve stepped in but he wasn’t a senior resident anymore. But he should’ve asked her what the hell she thought she was doing, because he was stumped. But when the nurse hesitated, then carefully placed the screaming bundle into Mel’s arms and left, dimming the lights, he didn’t stop it. He couldn’t. He watched it all with bated breath.
Mel sat down, pulling the swaddled blanket aside and pressing the baby against her chest.
The newborn’s cries didn’t stop right away—she squirmed and fussed, fists pummeling weakly at Mel’s skin. But Mel didn’t flinch. She tucked the baby in closer, cupped the back of her head, and bent her own head until her lips brushed the infant’s hair.
Frank had seen her calm patients before—coax drunks into compliance, talk panicked families off the ledge—but never like this. She was softer, steadier, her voice low and melodic as she whispered nonsense, the kind of sound meant only for the child in her arms.
Slowly, the screaming eased. The sobs broke into sad little hiccups. The tiny body sagged against Mel, still trembling, but clinging to the warmth of her.
Frank felt his chest tighten. He stepped closer, almost without realizing. “She’s quieter,” he said. His voice came out low, rough to his ears,
Mel looked up at him, her eyes shining, the faintest smile tugging her mouth. “She just needed someone to hold onto.”
He swallowed, throat dry. “But we had her medicated. Monitored. She still wouldn’t calm down.”
“That’s the thing,” Mel murmured, eyes falling back to the baby. Her hand rubbed small circles along the infant’s back, patient and unhurried. “Doctors and nurses—we’re trained to think medically. What’s clinically best for everyone. Fluids, meds, vitals. But babies…” She shook her head, adjusting her hold when the child whimpered.
“Babies don’t understand morphine doses or O2 sats. They understand heartbeat. Warmth. Being wanted and loved.”
Frank didn’t know what to say to that. His gaze lingered on the curve of her arm, the way she cradled the child against her own skin like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The baby let out a sigh—a tiny, fragile sound—and Frank felt it down to his bones.
“You’ve done this before,” he said quietly.
Mel shrugged, careful not to jostle the infant. “Brief NICU rotation. We used to take shifts sitting with NAS babies when they wouldn’t stop crying. It doesn’t fix everything, but it reminds them they’re not alone in it.” Her voice dipped even lower. “That someone’s here for them.”
Frank rubbed at the back of his neck, suddenly too aware of how close he was standing. How the sight of her—bare-shouldered, steady, protective—was lodging under his ribs in a way he hadn’t prepared for.
“You’re good at this,” he murmured before he could stop himself.
Mel’s smile was small, but it hit him harder than any trauma case. She rocked the baby gently, the child now dozing in uneven fits. “Everyone just wants to be held sometimes, Doctor Langdon. Even the littlest ones.”
And for the first time all shift, the ED fell silent.