Not gonna lie,y’allin a Norwegian accent is about as weird as the Bash family body disposal method.
“Yeah, we’re right behind you.”
They lead Samuel into the house, and I turn to Anders before we walk in. “So…you weren’t gonna tell me that this is how we handle bodies out here?”
“Hell no. The look on your face,” he says, pulling out his camera phone and snapping a picture. “It’s priceless.”
Before I can even think to protest, he’s sent the picture out to the whole team.
Jackass:Hey guys, Omar just met Millie.
Attached is a picture of me, looking dazed and agape.
Fine. I’m leaving his original nickname in the contact list.
The responses to the text are predictably asinine, so I shake my head and make my way into his parents’ house, fairly certain they aren’t serial killers.
I mean, technically, I’m a serial killer, but still…
Texas, indeed.
I’m also reminded of the fact that Anders nearly got himself killed this morning, so that’s two things I’m going to take out on his ass at the nearest opportunity.
Once we’re inside, we quickly focus on Samuel. He’s been able to stand up on his own, but he doesn’t look too steady on his feet. Mr. Bash leads him to a lovely guest room decorated with Scandinavian and Texan flare. We help him lay down on the bed, and Anders kneels beside him, his expression shifting along with the mood in the room.
“Mom, can you get me my kit, the big one in the hall closet?”
She nods and disappears down the hallway, returning seconds later with an enormous tackle box. Anders opens it up and takes out a clear bag of liquid, and Mama Bash removes a large painting from the wall.
Using a kind, direct tone, he explains, “This is just a bag of saline. You were strung up for a few hours, so we need to make sure you’re not dehydrated, okay?”
Samuel nods, though he’s clenching his fists. When Anders inserts the needle, a tear escapes his eyes, and I reach out to hold his hand. Anders gives me a small smile and finishes setting up the saline bag, which he hangs on the bracket that held the painting.
Pulling out his aluminum case, he plucks out a different syringe. “This is a world-class pain med, Samuel. You won’t feel a thing after this.”
He injects the contents of the syringe into the line, and within a few moments, the pained tension around Samuel’s shoulders releases.
Anders quickly gets to work on cleaning out the massive laceration, growling under his breath. “If I could kill that motherfucker twice, I would. I close surgical incisions all the damn time, but this is his face,” he says, exhaling. “I’ll do the best I can, but a plastic surgeon would have better tools and skills for this kind of wound.”
I hold up my hand. “Look at what you did with this. Look at how beautiful the stitches are. If I have any scar at all, it will be very minimal. You do good work. I’m sure this kid is just grateful that we’re protecting him. With alligators, apparently.”
Anders’ smile returns, and he squares his shoulders. “Thanks,” he whispers to me.
He refocuses and cleans the area thoroughly. I’m not particularly skittish about blood, but I concentrate on holding Samuel’s hand while Anders takes his time. Mrs. Bash wipes away a tear. “Please tell me the men who did this are in Millie’s belly right now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. I usually don’t wish ill on other people, but I just can’t stand it when they hurt the innocent.”
Anders finishes his exam and turns to his parents. “We can keep him in the guest room, correct?”
Mr. Bash grabs Anders’ shoulder. “For as long as he needs to be here.”
He breathes a sigh of relief, and his serious expression makes me miss the joking.
Mama and Papa Bash leave us to get lunch ready, while Anders and I take turns in the hallway bathroom, scrubbing Samuel’s blood from our hands.
I take a second to look around, and the house is lovely, light and airy with gorgeous photographs of what I assume to be the Norwegian coastline. There’s also a whole wall of Baby Anders and Baby Odd. A laugh escapes when I see awkward teenage Anders dressed as pansexual hero Brendon Urie from Panic! at the Disco.
