"Hey, Archie. I'm Inga. That's Femi. You like the Chiefs? Femi likes the Broncos. We don't talk about it. Breathe in that mist for me, slow as you can. Good man. Your heart's going to go fast again. That's my fault."
The numbers on the little screen climbed. I didn't know what they meant then, and I won't pretend I do now, except that Femi said "ninety-one," and then a while later "ninety-four," and then "ninety-seven," and each time he said it a little more like he was telling somebody the score of a game his team was winning. The pulling at Archie's ribs eased. The squeak softened into a wheeze and then into just fast breathing. The welts stayed angry, but his lip, which had been pushed out shiny and tight, began, so slowly you'd only see it if you looked away and looked back, to come down.
Somewhere in there Bergstrom glanced up at Clem, and then glanced again.
"Do I know you?"
"You did the Allergy Ready training at Frontier Trail," Clem said. "In seventh grade. You let me demonstrate on the dummy leg."
Bergstrom looked at her for a second longer. "Sloth pouch," she said.
"Yeah."
"You held it three seconds."
"You said to count Mississippi."