It was the battery indicator of a portable transport incubator.

A man in a dark gray security uniform was standing over the incubator, his back to us, holding a radio to his ear.

“We have a problem,” the man said into the radio, his voice echoing in the confined space.

“The doctor and the woman are down here.”

Ethan didn’t hesitate.

He lunged forward, throwing his weight against the man’s shoulders and knocking him against the brick wall.

The radio clattered to the ground, its speaker crackling with static.

I ran past them toward the blue light, my hands trembling as I reached for the incubator.

Inside the clear plastic dome, two tiny figures were huddled together under a green flannel blanket.

Maya’s eyes were closed, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

Leo was squirming, his little fist pressed against his cheek, his breathing heavy but steady.

“They’re okay,” I cried, tears blurs my vision as I checked the digital oxygen monitor on the side of the unit.

“The oxygen is still at ninety percent.”