Silence.
Leo is twelve. He was born with severe bronchopulmonary dysplasia, a reality that dictates every hour of his life. He doesn't play basketball. He doesn't run track. He attends physical education only to sit on the bleachers and record scores for the coaches, a compromise we reached with the district to keep him integrated with his peers. Attached to his back, every minute he is outside our home, is a four-pound modified oxygen concentrator in a reinforced blue canvas harness. It is his engine. He knows better than to unclip the chest strap, let alone take it off.
I walked past the trophy cases, my sensible work heels clicking too loudly in the empty corridor. The main gymnasium was dark, but a wedge of fluorescent light spilled from the boys' locker room at the far end of the court.
I crossed the hardwood floor, my pulse picking up a steady, uncomfortable rhythm. As I reached the propped-open door of the locker room, I heard a faint, mechanical sound.
Hiss. Click. Hiss. Click.