Chapter 4 - The Sound of Breath
“Leo?” Marco said softly, kneeling down beside the mattress so he was at eye-level with the boy.
Leo’s heavy eyelids fluttered open. He stared up at the tall, terrifying stranger in the dark coat with wide, frightened eyes, his little hands clutching the edges of the quilt.
“Are you a doctor?” the boy whispered, his voice thin and raspy.
“Something like that,” Marco replied, his voice losing its usual sharp edge. He unboxed the inhaler, checked the dosage counter, and held out the plastic mouthpiece. “Your mom had to run an errand. She asked me to bring this to you. Can you sit up for me, buddy? Just a little bit.”
Leo nodded weakly, struggling to push himself up against the pillows.
Marco gently placed the plastic chamber to the boy’s mouth. “Good. Now take a deep breath. Slow and steady. Hold it.”
He pressed the canister.
A puff of mist filled the spacer. Leo inhaled, his chest hitching once, twice, and then—with a shuddering sigh—relaxing as the medicine hit his constricted airways.
Marco waited ten seconds. “And out. Good boy. Let’s do it one more time.”
By the second puff, the terrible whistling sound in Leo’s chest had begun to soften. The blue tint around his lips faded back to a healthy pink. His breathing grew deeper, steadier, matching the rhythmic pulse of the nightlight.
Ten minutes later, Leo had drifted back into a peaceful, natural sleep, his mouth slightly open, the tension completely gone from his small face.
Marco stood up quietly, walked back out into the tiny living room, and found Jenny sitting on the edge of the sagging sofa, staring down at the cracked iPhone resting on the coffee table.
She looked up as he entered the room. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but the panic had subsided, replaced by a quiet, exhausted bewilderment.
“He’s sleeping,” Marco said quietly.
“Thank you,” Jenny whispered. She reached out, her finger tracing the cracked glass of her phone screen. “I know you paid the landlord. And I know the medicine costs a fortune. But I can’t take your money. I don't know who you are, or what kind of games you play, but I can’t be bought. I don't have anything left to give.”
Marco pulled a slim leather cardholder from his inner pocket, slid a small business card onto the table beside the phone, and laid two hundred-dollar bills right on top of it.
“This isn't a game, Jenny,” Marco said, his voice firm and steady. “And I’m not buying anything.”
“Then why?” she demanded, looking up, her green eyes flashing with sudden, fierce pride. “Why walk into a pawn shop, follow me home, beat off my slumlord, and pay for my life? People like you don't do that. Men in custom coats don't stop for women standing in pawn shops unless they want something.”
Marco paused. He looked around the cramped, miserable room—at the peeling paint, the plastic crates, the lingering smell of fear and poverty.
“Maybe I just wanted to make sure a kid got to breathe tonight,” Marco said simply.
He turned toward the front door, his hand resting on the brass knob.
“Wait!” Jenny stood up, taking a step toward him. “At least tell me your name. Tell me who to pay back when I get back on my feet.”
Marco stopped, his hand resting on the lock. He didn't look back.
May you like
“Marco,” he said softly.
Then he pulled the door open and stepped out into the cold stairwell, leaving her alone in the quiet apartment, with three months of rent paid, a box of fresh medicine on the counter, and a cracked phone that no longer felt like a loss, but a beginning.
