“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
Then I pulled.
His body arched off the bed, convulsing despite unconsciousness. A sound ripped from his throat — raw, broken, barely human. My grip slipped on sweat-slicked skin. I adjusted, braced my knee against the mattress, and pulled harder.
The joint resisted. Held. His breathing went ragged, fast shallow gasps, drowning on dry land.
Finish it. Don’t stop now.
I rotated steadily, fighting every instinct screaming to let go, to spare him this. His muscles locked rigid under my hands. Another sound, sharper this time, pain breaking through whatever dark place he’d gone to escape consciousness.
Every nerve I possessed wanted to stop. Pull back. Find another way that didn’t involve torturing someone already half-dead.
There was no other way.
The shoulder popped with a wet sound that turned my stomach. His body went limp all at once, the tension draining in an instant. I released him, stumbling back, hands shaking so hard I had to grip the bedframe.
He didn’t move. Didn’t make another sound. Just that shallow, labored breathing.
I pressed my fingers to his throat, counting pulse. Too fast. Too weak. Thready. But there.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered again. Not sure if I was apologizing for causing pain or for the fact that I’d do it again if I had to. Whatever kept him alive.
I secured the joint before my hands could start shaking worse, wrapping his shoulder in makeshift bandaging.
Back to the microwave. I shoved another towel inside, punched thirty seconds. The machine hummed, yellow light painting my hands brown with his blood. I scrubbed them under the tap while waiting, water running pink, then clear, then pink again. Too much blood. He’d lost too much.
The microwave beeped. I grabbed the towel, hissing when heat bit my palms, and returned to the bed.
His chest rose and fell. Slower now. The shivering had reduced to occasional tremors, but his skin still felt too cold when I pressed the heated fabric to his sternum. I counted to thirty. Moved the towel to his throat, his ribs, his hands, those long fingers still ice against mine.
My touch lingered on his palm, thumb tracing the calluses there.
What are you doing?
I jerked my hand back and grabbed another towel. Focused on warming his core, his extremities. Medical necessity. Nothing more.
Except my fingers kept finding excuses to touch, smoothing wet hair from his forehead, checking his pulse at his throat when his wrist would do, palm resting on his chest longer than required to count heartbeats.
I caught myself and stopped. Then, I found myself doing it again five minutes later.
He was my patient. That’s all. The protective instinct rising in my chest was professional concern, nothing more complicated.
Liar.
Twenty rotations later, his core temperature felt closer to normal. Fever climbing, infection setting in, his body mounting a defense against invasion. I’d need antibiotics. Real ones, not the expired amoxicillin in my cabinet. He’d need IV fluids to replace blood volume. Imaging to check for internal bleeding. Monitors to track vitals. A real hospital with real resources.
He had me, my kitchen scissors, and determination.
Fantastic odds.
I moved to his head, finally addressing the wound I’d been avoiding. The laceration ran from temple to crown, deep enough that bone gleamed white underneath. Blood matted his hair, dried brown against his scalp. I grabbed a clean towel, soaked it in warm water, and started cleaning.
His hair was softer than expected under the blood and river water. Dark blond, short. I worked carefully, dabbing away dried blood, revealing the full extent of damage. The edges were clean. Recent.
The surgical glue went on in careful lines, sealing the wound closed. It would hold, keeping his skull protected while his body tried to heal. Not pretty. He’d scar badly, but the hair would probably hide it.
I leaned back, surveying my work. His face slack in unconsciousness, all that coiled tension gone. He looked younger like this. Almost peaceful despite the damage, despite everything.
