He tries. God, he tries. But he can barely stay upright. We make it five feet before he stumbles. I scream in frustration and fear, digging deep for strength I don’t have.
“Move, Ghost! Fucking move!”
That gets him going. Step by agonizing step, we make it to the door. Through the living room. He collapses on the couch and doesn’t get back up.
I run to the bathroom. Grab towels, the first aid kit Ghost showed me, anything that might help. My hands shake so badly that I drop half of it.
When I get back, Ghost’s eyes are closed.
“No!” I slap his face. Hard. “Wake up! You don’t get to pass out on me!”
His eyes flutter open. Unfocused. “Bonnie…”
“I’m here. I’m right here.” I press a towel to his side. Blood soaks through immediately. “Stay with me. Talk to me.”
“Hurts.”
“I know. I know it hurts.” Tears stream down my face, but I keep pressure on the wound. “Where’s the bullet?”
“Still in.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
I’ve never done this. Never had to deal with a gunshot wound. I’ve stitched up minor cuts, watched Jamie patch up brothers after bar fights, but nothing like this.
Ghost is dying, and I have no idea how to save him.
“Okay.” I wipe my eyes with my shoulder. “Okay. I can do this.”
I grab the first aid kit and dump everything on the floor. Scissors. Gauze. Tape. Alcohol. Tweezers.
Tweezers.
I can get the bullet out with tweezers.
“This is going to hurt,” I tell him.
“Already hurts.”
I cut away his shirt. The wound is a small dark hole in his left side, just below his ribs. Blood pumps out with each heartbeat.
I pour alcohol over my hands. Over the tweezers. Over the wound.
Ghost jerks and swears. “Fuck!”
“Sorry. Sorry.” I position the tweezers at the entrance. “I have to get the bullet out or you’ll get infected.”
“Do it.”
I push the tweezers in.
Ghost arches off the couch with a roar of pain. His hand shoots out and grabs my wrist, crushing. But he doesn’t pull me away. “Keep going,” he grits out.
Deeper. The tweezers scrape against something hard. The bullet.
I adjust my grip and try to get a hold on it. My hands are slippery with blood and sweat.
“Come on,” I whisper. “Come on.”
