The apartment is tiny and there is no real furniture. The only option is to place Maksim on the floor.
“Scissors,” I murmur. “I need to see.”
When scissors don’t magically appear in my hand, I tear the fabric of his shirt.
Semyon produces a first aid kit from somewhere—a massive thing that looks like it came straight off an ambulance.
He kneels on the other side of Maksim.
"Pressure here,” he says. “Hold this. Don't let go."
I follow his instructions robotically. I trust him to know what to do. Anyone with that kind of medical kit has to have some medical training. In his life, I imagine gunshot wounds are pretty common. My hands are covered in Maksim's blood. It's under my fingernails, soaking into my skin, staining everything it touches.
"Is he—" Anya starts, her voice breaking.
"He's alive," Semyon cuts her off. "Barely. But alive."
We work in silence after that. Cleaning the wounds—God, there are so many. The gunshot in his shoulder that looks and smells awful. The new one in his side. Cuts and bruises covering every inch of him.
The antibiotics go in via IV. Semyon's hands are steady as he finds a vein, gets the line in, starts the drip.
"Where did you learn this?" I ask, my voice hoarse.
"A friend." He's already moving to the next task. "Someone had to know field medicine.”
I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’m just so grateful he knows how to help Maksim.
The stitches come next. I hold Maksim still while Semyon sews him back together. Each pierce of the needle makes me flinch,but Maksim doesn't react. He's too far gone; consciousness lost somewhere between the car and this safe house.
"Will he make it?" The question tears out of me.
Semyon doesn't answer right away. He finishes the last stitch, ties it off and cuts the thread.
"I don't know," he finally says. "He's lost a lot of blood. The infection in his shoulder was already bad before the new wound. And his body—" He stops, jaw clenching. "Six years of torture doesn't leave you with much reserve."
The words are a punch to the gut.
Maksim survived hell only to die now, when we finally have a chance at something real.
"We need to get him on a bed," Semyon says. "Carefully."
Between the three of us, we manage to lift him. He's dead weight, his skin burning with fever. We carry him to a small bedroom at the back of the safe house and lay him on the mattress.
I immediately climb in beside him, unable to stand being separated by even a few feet.
"Kira—" Semyon starts.
"Don't." I cut him off. "I'm staying here."
He studies me for a long moment, then nods. "I'll bring you clean clothes. Water. Food if you'll eat it."
"I won't."
"I'll bring it anyway."
He leaves, Anya trailing behind him. I hear them talking in low voices in the other room, but I can't make out the words.
All I care about is the man lying beside me, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.
