“Mouth to mouth,” Bette said. “Keep her breathing.”
Already she had her fingers between Zia’s parted teeth. She probed and then squinted into the opening, her long throat relaxed. Med School training.
“I’ll go first,” Bette said, and with that she was down on the other woman’s face. Down on that bloodless, helpless face, while her own flushed as red as something out of Zia’s postcards. At least Zia’s chest changed shape, rising as Bette blew into it. Kit noticed the writer’s shirt, a bulky blue flannel. A lumberjack shirt. Menswear. He was thinking about men, about heroes and troublemakers and men. But these were thoughts, only. They flickered, nothing more. Then he was in place beside his wife, making sure the air was reaching the sick girl’s diaphragm. Gently he laid his empty hands on her.
“Any time.”
His work was simple now. Simple and all to the good.