The Air We Breathe by Christa Parrish Page A

covered her with a rough blanket that smelled like dog, and she breathed short, prickly hairs up her nose. Fat Guy kept talking, his voice sailing back to her in uneven rumbles. The other two remained silent. Eventually the car slowed and the interior became shadowy.
    Thin Man turned off the engine. “Wrap her up,” he said.
    Short One did as he was told, winding Hanna’s flimsy body in the blanket with only her eyes and mouth showing. He hefted her over his shoulder and maneuvered both of them from the car without hitting her head on the doorframe. FatGuy was still talking, and Thin Man said, “If you open your mouth on the way to the apartment, I’ll shoot you. You’ve seen I have no problem doing so.”
    Fat Guy rolled his lips over his teeth and bit down so he looked mouthless, only a slit in the skin between his chin and nose. The men climbed stairs, Thin Man ahead, Fat Guy puffing somewhere behind, and Short One’s shoulder digging into Hanna’s stomach. Her bladder released again.
    Thin Man unlocked a door, and they all went inside. Short One put Hanna on the carpeted floor. “Now what?”
    “She stinks,” Fat Guy said, swore under his breath.
    “I think the little girl here needs a bath,” Thin Man said. “I’m more than happy to do so.”
    “I’ll do it,” Short One said.
    “Always the gentleman,” Thin Man said with a chuckle.
    Short One unrolled Hanna and lifted her again, this time in a cradle carry, one arm under the back of her knees, the other against her back. Hanna offered no resistance or help, but as he took her down the hallway, her head fell against his chest. She felt his chest muscle twitching against her cheek, had felt the same thing when her father carried her, and she cried without sound, only tears and mucus and grief.
    “Don’t cry,” Short One said after he closed and locked the bathroom door. “You’ll get home. I promise.”
    He sat her on the toilet, undressed her, balling her soiled clothes in the sink. Ran water from the tub spout over his wrist before plugging the drain and squirting in some shampoo. “There,” he said when the tub was half filled and he shut off the water. She didn’t move, stayed slumped over, one thin arm across her chest, hand hugging her shoulder, the other arm tight against her lap. Legs clamped together. He hesitatedand then took a towel from the hook behind the door and covered the front of her before lifting her under the armpits and easing her into the soapy, too-hot water.
    He left the towel over her.
    With a washcloth he cleaned her back in sloppy circular motions. She rested her chest against her folded knees. He didn’t bother washing her hair, but the ends skimmed the water anyway, and when he pulled her from the bath she felt the sticky tendrils adhere to her skin. This time she obliged Short One by bearing weight on her legs as he set her down on a fuzzy pink bath mat, the kind she hated because it left lint between her toes. He eased a dry towel around her and tugged the bottom of the soaked one so she let go and it puddled at her feet. The damp weight reminded her of her father’s body.
    Looking around, Short One muttered under his breath. Then he stripped off his own gray Corona T-shirt and dressed her in it. It hung to her knees. He turned around in the small bathroom, again, as if looking for escape, picked up Hanna’s underpants—pink with white daisies—rinsed them and wrung them out in his fist. He opened the drawers in the vanity, looked under the sink and found a hair dryer. It whirred to life when he slid his thumb over the switch and he blew the hot air over her panties.
    “Here,” he said, trying to hand them to her.
    She didn’t take them.
    He hesitated again, knelt in front of her. Encircling one ankle, he raised her foot and slipped the underwear over her toes. He did the same with the other side and shimmied the still-damp cloth up her still-damp legs and, turning his head, snapped the elastic waist over