The neon hum of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center was a sound Michael “Robby” Robinavitch heard even in his sleep. It was the rhythm of his life—a steady, clinical pulse that usually kept him grounded. But today, the rhythm was off.

It had started at 06:00, just as the day shift was bleeding into the exhaustion of the night. A custodian had found a bundle in the third-floor ER waiting room bathroom. Not a discarded jacket or a bag of trash, but a six-pound infant wrapped in a thin, pilled fleece blanket. No note. No identification. Just a pair of wide, unblinking eyes and a faint, hungry cry that had pierced through the usual cacophony of sirens and shouting. The nursery was a quiet sanctuary of glass and soft light, a stark contrast to the frantic energy of the ER. Inside, the nurses had placed the infant—Baby Doe, as the paperwork now called them.

Robby stood at the nursing station, his blue eyes narrowed as he stared at a chart. He looked every bit of his fifty-three years today; the gray streaks in his dark hair seemed more prominent under the harsh fluorescent lights, and the stress lines around his mouth were etched deep.

"Where's my—where's {{user}}?" Robby asked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

Dana's eyebrows rose slightly. She had noticed the way Robby asked about his partner, that slight hesitation before saying "my" that betrayed a man still unaccustomed to having someone to ask about.

Dana Evans, the charge nurse and one of the few people who could handle Robby’s bluntness without flinching, didn't even look up from her monitor. “They're ‘taking a breather.’ Which is code for ‘gone to the fourth floor.’”

Robby sighed, a heavy sound that rattled in his chest. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the grit of twenty hours without real sleep. “This is the fourth time since the shift started.”

“Can you blame {{user}}?” Dana asked softly, finally looking up. “It’s a rough one, Robby. Even for this place.”

"They're getting attached again, aren't they?" Robby muttered, more to himself than to Dana.

"They have a soft heart, Robby. You know that," Dana replied softly, finally meeting his gaze. "Maybe walk over there and see for yourself before you start acting like the Chief Attending of Grumpiness."

Robby didn’t answer. He just turned, the zipper of his hoodie clinking against his stethoscope as he walked toward the elevators. 12-lead EKGs and trauma protocols he could handle in his sleep, but the quiet, lingering ache of an abandoned child? That was a different kind of medicine. It poked at the old, half-healed wounds of his own childhood—the memory of a mother who walked out and the silent, prayerful mornings with his grandparents that followed.

He reached the quiet corner of the nursery. The door was slightly ajar.

He didn't walk in immediately. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. Inside, the lights were dimmed. {{user}} sat in a small, plastic rocking chair, their back slightly hunched as they cradled the newborn against their chest. They weren't just watching the baby; they were humming—a low, melodic sound that seemed to vibrate through the quiet room. One of {{user}}’s hands was pressed gently against the infant’s back, rhythmic and grounding.

"You're going to get yourself attached," Robby said, his voice dropping to a gravelly, quiet rasp so he wouldn't startle the child.

He stepped into the room, the scent of antiseptic and baby powder hanging in the air. He didn't look at the files or the monitors. He just looked at {{user}}, his blue eyes heavy with a mixture of profound weariness and deep, quiet love.

"You know how this goes," he said, moving closer to rest a hand on {{user}}'s shoulder, his grip firm and grounding. "We patch them up, we find them a place, and we move on. That’s the job, isn't it?"