“What?”
“I’m thinking...” He continues to stare at the shirt, then pushes the sleeve inside out into the torso. “What about this?”
He does the same for the other one, then puts the end of one ofthe sticks into the top of the sleeve. He pulls the stick down and out through the bottom of the shirt. Then he repeats the process on the other side and holds the sticks up, pulling the shirt taut. It looks like he’s made a little hammock.
“We can put three shirts like this and you lie on them.”
Is it weird that I’m proud of him? “That’s perfect.”
He completes the stretcher and places it next to me. We spend a good fifteen to twenty minutes trying to move me onto it, inch by inch. I don’t tell him that I probably shouldn’t be moving, and how if I move too much the packing on the wound might loosen and I could bleed out.
I don’t want to worry him, but every time I wince in pain, the fear is there on his face.
He takes the end of the stretcher and starts pulling me. At first it feels like I’m going to slide down off the thing. Each bump Andrew hits, each time he adjusts his hands to not lose his grip, is agony. Sharp, searing pain up my side and down my leg.
He keeps asking if I’m okay and I say yes the best I can, but he has to know I’m lying. I feel so useless like this. When the pain gets to be too much and I let out a sharp gasp or whimper, he says he needs to take a break.
He could go on dragging me forever and he wouldn’t complain or stop, no matter how much his muscles burn. He’s only stopping for me. We get to a road and Andrew pulls me down the asphalt; it’s a little smoother than the woods and I’m able to shut my eyes and rest.
The sun is setting when we reach the farm stand. It’s the magic hour and the clouds above us are pink. Andrew sets me down gentlyand takes a couple of steps toward the end of the tree line, looking for something.
“You have to go,” I say.
“Fuck you.” He doesn’t say it meanly; it’s more an absent-minded shutdown.
“Andrew, just leave, head south, I’ll catch up with you when I can walk properly. I promise.”
He finally glances over at me. He looks like he’s going to call my bullshit, but he doesn’t. I don’t want him to get hurt. “I’m not leaving you again.”
“You ha—”
“I’mnotleaving you.” His jaw’s tight and his eyes furious.
“You’re so fucking stubborn.”
“I’mstubborn? You’re the one—”
“You’re both stubborn and very loud.” It’s another voice. Andrew flinches and reaches for his gun but doesn’t draw it. He relaxes as he recognizes Cara pedaling toward us from the road, her backpack fat and full.
“Sorry,” Andrew says. She drops the kickstand and slides the pack to the ground next to me.
“How is this?” she asks, holding out her haul. Andrew looks to me. There are gauze pads and bandages, a liter of water, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a few bottles of pills.
“Where did you find all this?” Andrew asks.
“I had to break into houses. Some were empty, some... weren’t.” I’m pretty sure she means bodies, not living people. “I wasn’t sure what you needed, but I’m sorry it took so long.”
“What are those?” I point to the pills.
She looks in my direction but doesn’t answer; instead she hands them to Andrew. He tilts them to try to read them in the dying light.
“Opiates.”
“Fantastic.” I hold out my hands. “Give me four.”
“Four?”
“I got shot, Andrew!”
