The tears do not fall as the midwife looks over and sees the baby turning blue. She raises her voice only slightly as she asks for someone to put oxygen on the baby. They do not fall as the supervisor listens for a heartbeat and finds none. She yells for the guards to get the ambulance. Someone hits the buzzer that rings throughout the building to call everyone available. The whole world turns sharp as a mask covers the baby’s face and air is pushed into her tiny lungs. There is a slap of feet as we run out the door to the waiting ambulance. No tears fall as the midwife’s hands press down firmly and repeatedly on the small chest, as she counts along with her partner who pushes air rhythmically into the baby’s body. My eyes are wide but dry as I bend as close as I dare and hold a stethoscope against the white skin. I hear nothing, only the whoosh of air and the clunks and bangs of the ambulance as we race through the streets at dawn. My mind is clear as I wish desperately for the infant stethoscope that I dropped on the counter with my chart as I ran at my supervisor’s call. As soon as the ambulance stops in front of the emergency doors we run again – straight through the crowd in front and between the beds filled with people into the small room that is paediatric emergency. The midwife’s eyes are still dry as she continues to press on the tiny chest, reports to the doctor, transfers the care of the baby girl. We have done all that we can, time begins to blur, I don’t remember the walk back through the beds filled with people. The sun has lit the sky and we walk out into a hazy morning. Kuya holds the door and we climb back into the ambulance. The door clicks shut behind us, and the tears begin to fall.