“Does that usually work?”
“Sometimes. Depends on the holes.”
The minutes crawl past. I check my watch obsessively—three minutes, five minutes, seven minutes. What if she doesn’t come back? What if the store doesn’t have what we need? What if Cooper’s bleeding out while I stand here burning precious time on faith and desperation?
Eight minutes.Nine.
At precisely ten minutes, Janet returns carrying a plastic bag. Relief floods through me so intensely that my knees go weak.
“Got everything on your list,” she says, handing me the bag. “Plus some extra gauze. Figured you might need it.”
I peek inside—white packages of sterile gauze, medical tape, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, ibuprofen, energy bars, water bottles. Everything Cooper needs.
“Thank you,” I breathe. “Thank you so much.”
“Hope your friend makes it.” She turns to walk away, then pauses. “Next time someone tells you people like us can’t be trusted, you remember this.”
“I will.”
The bag clutches against my chest as I hurry back toward the maintenance shed. The medical supplies inside shift and rustle with each step, a promise of hope wrapped in sterile plastic packaging.
Cooper has to be okay. He has to be.
The shed’s door opens to the metallic smell of blood. Cooper sits slumped against the concrete wall, head tilted back, eyes closed. For one terrible moment, I think I’m too late.
Then his chest rises and falls, shallow but steady.
“Cooper?” I whisper.
His eyes open slowly, pupils dilated and unfocused. “You came back.”
“Of course I came back.” I drop to my knees beside him, setting the bag where he can see it. “Now let me take care of you.”
“Eliza—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended, carrying all the fear and desperation of the last hour. “You took care of me. Now I take care of you.”
For once, he doesn’t argue.
I start with the antiseptic, the sharp chemical smell cutting through the concrete mustiness. “This is going to hurt.”
“Do it.”
The makeshift bandages peel away to reveal wounds that look worse than I remembered. The shoulder entry and exit points are ragged and angry red around the edges. Blood seeps from torn muscle, but it’s not the bright arterial spray that would mean we’re out of time.
Yet.
“My father always said gunshot wounds were like bad poetry,” I murmur, soaking gauze with hydrogen peroxide. “They look dramatic, but most of the damage is internal and hard to see.”
“Your father treated gunshot wounds?”
I press the antiseptic-soaked gauze against the entry wound. Cooper’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t make a sound. “He said the ones who talked through the pain did better than the ones who suffered in silence.”
“Good thing you never shut up.”
Despite everything, I almost smile. “Very funny.”
The peroxide foams white against the torn tissue, bubbling as it cleans debris from the wound. Cooper’s breathing stays controlled, but his hands curl into fists against the concrete floor.
