Doug James

The Fire in our Chests

Hani’s lungs burned. She and her mother had been running for eight blocks now in the acrid Seattle air, through the barely perceptible gray haze, now cresting the hill near Harborview hospital. Her mother, Sagal, shambled behind her, her dark blue peacock-themed baati flowing around her as she moved and tugging at the garbasaar around her shoulders as it slipped loose. Only her head scarf, her shash, stayed in place. Sagal always meticulously wrapped and pinned it in place before she left their musty, dated two-bedroom apartment in the Central District.