Blood stains his side.
Dark.
Sticky.
My nursing brain kicks in whether I want it to or not. It’s a reflex. A switch that flips. Assessment mode.
He’s conscious—barely. His head lolls. His breathing is fast, shallow. His lips are pale. His eyes flicker up at me, glassy.
Gunshot wound. Side or lower abdomen. I can’t tell yet.
Someone behind me says, “That’s him.”
Brother.
The one I’m supposed to save. My stomach rolls. “Why didn’t you take him in?” I demand before I can stop myself. “He could bleed out.”
A man laughs. “That’s why you’re here.”
The president steps into the doorway behind me, filling it like a shadow. “He can’t go in,” he repeats, impatient. “You fix him.”
I force myself closer, swallowing down the terror. I can’t help Grandpa if I panic now. I can’t help myself if I refuse outright. I can only do what I know how to do—keep someone alive with the tools I have.
“Lay him back,” I state sharply. “I need to see the wound.”
No one moves.
I look at the president. “If you want him alive, you need to let me work,” I repeat. “Now.”
His eyes harden, but he nods once. Two men step forward and haul the injured man upright. He groans, the sound wet and ugly, and my skin crawls with sympathy I don’t want to feel.
“Don’t,” the man cries out. “Don’t lay me down. It hurts.”
“Gotta have space to work, you can’t be sitting upright.” I explain frustrated because this man needs serious medical attention.
They prop him back against the chair before someone else appears with a pillow and hands it to me as they then move to lay the victim on the tarps, stretching him out.
“For your knees,” the new man explains about bringing me the pillow.
I kneel in front of the man bleeding, careful with my bound wrists, and lean in.
The wound is on his right side, just above the hip. Entry wound small. Blood soaked through a makeshift bandage—an old towel, wrapped tight and already saturated. There’s swelling. Bruising. The skin around it is hot.
He shivers.
Shock is setting in.
My mind races. How long ago was he wounded? How much blood lost? Where did the bullet travel?
I can’t palpate properly with my hands tied together like this. Is there internal bleeding?
“I need my hands free,” I state.
The president’s voice comes from behind me. “No.”
I shut my eyes for half a second, fighting the rage rising in my throat. “You want him alive,” I state slowly, opening my eyes again. “Or you want to punish me? In order for him to live I need the freedom to do my best job. In order for my grandfather to live and me to live you made it very clear he has to live. So let’s stop the games, give me my hands free so I can fix your friend. Are you going to be the reason he dies now?”
That’s a dangerous question. The room goes still. I feel the weight of guns without seeing them.
