He’s lying on the couch. Judging by the look he’s giving me, I’ll never get an answer or at least a happy one.
“You Americans are always so… Bah! Forget it,” the woman replies, I can’t help but laugh, and that triggers a response. “Just in case you didn’t notice, I’m from Spain, not France. Two completely different countries.”
“Don’t waste your time,” the Frenchman mumbles. “She hasn’t made any progress on anything since we’ve been traveling together.”
“Does that opinion include me saving your French ass a few hours ago?” I ask sharply.
He points to his wounded arm. “You didn’t do a perfect job, though.”
“Nobody is perfect.”
“I’ll start stitching. Are you ready?” The woman grabs a small sewing needle that’s already threaded from her first aid kit.
Needles.
Breathe Sarah, breathe.
She slowly drives the needle through my skin, carefully watching both her work and my reaction. Maybe she’s expecting me to squirm, but my face is stoic as I think about nice things.
Bruno.
Bruno’s touches.
Bruno’s eyes.
Bruno’s frowns.
I smile to myself, thinking about that.
“How are you doing with the pain?” she asks.
“I’m fine, Esmeralda, keep going.”
She smiles at the name choice.
The Frenchman is analyzing the whole situation from afar. He’s staring at me though I can’t read him.
“If you want to say something, just say it,” I snap.
He smiles.
“Is Rage listening?”
My instinct warns me not to say he isn’t.
“Of course.”
The Spanish woman looks puzzled.
“Ask him about our next stop. We are running out of time, and I must know where it is. We can’t loiter around Saudi like you do in America.”
Fuck. I don’t have an answer for that.
“He’s saying he’ll confirm in a few hours,” I lie.
“Done,” Esmeralda says, going to the Bedouin. “Let’s see how you do with stitches.”
He sits up so she can stitch him up. “The shower is down the hallway.” She points.
