I nod once, already pulling gauze from the side pocket of my coat. “Okay. Then we focus on that. You’re gonna be fine, Sadie. You hear me?”
I scoop her into my arms and rise, holding her tight against my chest. Her head drops to my shoulder. She whimpers once, soft and pained.
“I’ve got you,” I repeat, voice steady even though nothing inside me is.
Maisie follows at my heels, barking now toward the tree line—alert, alarmed.
I move fast across the field, boots crunching through snow. Sadie's weight is nothing in my arms, but every step jostles her, and she flinches against me.
The cabin door is still open from when I ran out. I shoulder through, Maisie darting in ahead of us.
I kick the door shut behind us with my heel, then flip the lock one-handed while keeping Sadie secure against my chest.
Straight to the kitchen table—the best light, the most space. I need to see what I’m working with.
My boots track snow and mud across the floor. Sadie’s boots are caked in it too, laces dragging. I don’t care.
I lower her carefully into the nearest chair, steadying her with one hand while I shrug out of my coat with the other. It hits the floor. Her coat is still on, soaked through at the shoulder, sleeve dark with blood.
Maisie circles us once, whining, then plants herself beside Sadie’s chair.
I push my sleeves up, rubbing my hands together fast. They’re cold from the snow, and I don’t want to touch her wound with frozen fingers.
“I’m okay,” Sadie says. Too fast. Too high.
“What happened?”
“I was standing by the fence, and there was a sound like a pop.” She swallows hard. “It was so loud. And then the pain…”
She’s pale, breathing fast, her gaze unfocused. Shock is setting in. I’ve seen it enough times to know the signs.
I quickly wash my hands, grab the med kit, and crouch in front of her. “Let me see.”
She hesitates, then nods.
I carefully help her out of the coat and toss it aside before peeling back the shredded sleeve of her shirt, assessing as I go. The bullet grazed the outside of her upper arm and burned a furrow through skin and muscle about three inches long. Deep enough to bleed, shallow enough that it missed anything vital. No arterial spray. No bone fragments. The edges are clean, slightly cauterized by the heat.
A warning shot.
Someone is playing with her.
The thought almost drops me to my knees with rage, but I lock it down. She needs me steady.
“This is going to sting,” I warn, reaching for the antiseptic.
She nods, jaw tight.
I irrigate the wound with saline to flush out any debris. She hisses but doesn’t pull away. I work fast, checking for foreign material, making sure the track is clean. No fabric embedded. No powder burns beyond surface level.
“You’re doing good,” I murmur, applying pressure with gauze to slow the bleeding. It’s already clotting. Her body’s doing what it should.
I pack the wound with sterile gauze, then wrap it with even pressure. Not too tight—don’t want to cut off circulation. Secure enough to hold through movement.
She watches me with wide, frightened eyes.
I tape off the bandage, then check her pulse at the wrist. Fast, but strong. Her fingers are warm. Good perfusion.
“Can you move your fingers for me?”
