"Stay that way."
It comes out harsher than I intend.
I pull my hand free and start moving.
Bathroom first. Under-sink cabinet. A plastic first aid kit, yellowed with age. Antiseptic wipes. Gauze. Cheap tape. A tiny sewing kit in a clear pouch.
Kitchen. Pantry. Bottled water. A couple of cans of soup.
Back door. Keys on a hook. Through the window: a pickup truck parked behind the structure, rust on the wheel wells.
The family won't notice it's gone until summer. By then, we'll be someone else.
I return to the couch with the kit and water.
Maksim's eyes crack open at the sound of my steps. He follows the kit like it's a weapon.
"We leave soon," I say. "But not before this."
I cut away the soaked fabric around his thigh. The cloth sticks. I peel it off carefully.
The wound is worse in daylight.
Clean through—entry neat, exit messy. The exit side has torn edges. Blood still wells, slow but steady. A leak that becomes a drain if you wait long enough.
Maksim stares at the ceiling. His jaw flexes once, hard.
I wipe. I irrigate with bottled water. I use antiseptic until my nose burns. I pack gauze to slow the seep, then pull it away and look again.
He makes a sound when the antiseptic hits deep. A sharp, involuntary hiss.
It's the only truth pain extracts from him.
"I have to close it," I say. "No proper sutures."
His eyes find mine fully now. Clearer. Meaner.
"You know how?"
I glance at the sewing kit.
"My mother did," I say. The memory is so vivid it almost knocks me sideways: her hands guiding mine over a torn cuff. "She made me learn. For 'self-reliance.'"
"That's... not reassuring."
"No."
I thread the needle anyway.
My hands don't shake. Not because I'm brave, but because if they shake, he bleeds out.
I brace the flesh and line up the first stitch.
The needle goes in with resistance that makes my stomach flip. Skin is not fabric; it pushes back.
Maksim goes rigid from throat to toes. His fingers claw into the couch cushion.
I pause long enough for him to breathe. He doesn't look at me; he stares at a fixed point in the air.
