Electrolyte drinks.
Crackers.
The Nurse Biker added no medicine.
Not without seeing the child.
The girl watched everything disappear into two insulated bags.
“You can really take all that?”
The Vice President looked offended.
“Kid, if we let you leave with less, the cooks will take it personally.”
For the first time, the girl almost smiled.
They left in the club’s old black pickup.
The Biker Leader drove.
The Nurse Biker sat in the back beside the girl.
The Vice President rode shotgun.
The pink backpack remained clutched against the child’s chest.
As they drove east, the Biker Leader kept checking the mirror.
The girl looked smaller in the truck.
At the club, tables and people had surrounded her.
Now it was obvious how tiny she was.
The Nurse Biker spoke quietly.
“What’s your brother’s name?”
The child answered.
The Nurse Biker used it once.
Carefully.
“And yours?”
The girl gave hers.
The Biker Leader did not repeat it immediately.
He knew names could feel like trust.
He waited until she offered.
The Nurse Biker continued.
“Does your brother have asthma?”
The girl nodded.
“Does he use an inhaler?”
“Yes.”
“Is that what ran out?”
She pointed toward the plastic evidence bag containing the bottle.
“That medicine goes in his breathing machine.”
“Nebulizer?”
The girl did not know.
The Nurse Biker described it.
A little machine with a mask.
The child nodded.
“Yes.”
“Does he have an inhaler too?”
“I think.”
“Where?”
“Mom’s room maybe.”
The Nurse Biker looked toward the Biker Leader.
They needed EMS.
But calling before reaching the apartment risked sending responders to the wrong unit if the girl’s directions were uncertain.
The girl directed them with landmarks.
“The store with the broken red sign.”
“Turn where the yellow house is.”
“Past the laundry place.”
The neighborhood changed as they drove.
Smaller houses.
More duplexes.
Then aging apartment buildings.
The girl suddenly leaned forward.
“There.”
The building was three stories.
Faded tan stucco.
Exterior stairs.
Half the parking lot cracked.
A grocery cart lay tipped near the dumpsters.
The Biker Leader parked.
The girl had her door open before the truck fully stopped.
“Wait.”
She froze.
He softened his tone.
“Stay with us.”
She nodded.
They climbed the exterior stairs.
Second floor.
End unit.
The girl reached into her backpack for a key attached to a red shoelace.
The Biker Leader saw her hands shaking.
She unlocked the door.
Inside, the air was hot.
Too hot.
Curtains closed.
No air-conditioning.
A box fan ran near the living room window.
The apartment smelled faintly of stale cereal, sweat, and something medicinal.
The little girl dropped her backpack.
“Brother?”
No answer.
Her face changed.
“Brother?”
She ran.
The Nurse Biker followed.
The boy was on a mattress in the smaller bedroom.
Four years old.
Curled beneath a thin blanket despite the heat.
His breathing was fast.
Too fast.
His face looked flushed.