The president steps closer until I can sense him right behind me. He leans down.
“You’re real brave,” he murmurs near my ear. “Too bad I don’t like sloppy seconds from a Hellion. That challenge you got could be fun in bed. Bet that pussy is tight like a vice grip.”
My breath catches. My eyes sting with unshed tears. I swallow the emotion back and keep my voice as clinical as I can. “I need my bag. I need to check his pulse, his breathing, his cognitive status. I need to apply pressure properly, clean the wound, assess for exit. I need to know if he’s bleeding internally. If he’s got abdominal rigidity, if he’s losing blood into his cavity, he needs a surgeon. He needs antibiotics, pain meds.”
A man scoffs. “She talkin’ like she a damn doctor.”
“I’m talking like someone who doesn’t want him dead on your floor,” I snap, surprising myself with the sharpness.
The injured man coughs, his eyes fluttering. “Water,” he rasps.
Realistically we would withhold food and liquid prepping him for surgery. But I’m clearly not in a normal situation. So fuck it, he wants water, let him have it. I glance around. “Do you have water?”
One of the men tosses a bottle onto the bed. It bounces and rolls.
I pick it up with my bound hands, twist the cap with effort, and bring it to the injured man’s mouth. He drinks too fast, choking.
“Slow,” I instruct automatically, steadying him. “Slow. You’ll aspirate. Can’t breathe and swallow at the same time. ”
The word makes my stomach twist because it reminds me of Grandpa, of aspiration pneumonia, of lungs filling with fluid. I am full of helplessness. I set the bottle aside and look up at the president again.
“You want me to remove a bullet,” I begin. “With what? A pocketknife? A pair of pliers? That’s how you get infection. That’s how you kill him.”
The men shift, uneasy now. They don’t like hearing the possibility that their plan might fail. The president’s jaw works.
“What do you need?” he asks, clipped.
“My bag from my car. Sterile gloves,” I rattle off immediately. “Gauze. Clean towels. Alcohol. Antiseptic. Suture kit. Local anesthetic if you have it. Antibiotics. A clean surface. Light. Iodine. Saline solution.”
“Light, you got it,” someone mutters. “Got a kit with the gloves. Have her bag from the trunk.”
I ignore it. “And I need my hands free.”
The president pauses, then gives a sharp nod to one of his men. “Do it,” he commands.
Relief is immediate and sickening as the stranger approaches. A knife flashes. The zip ties fall away.
My wrists throb as I rub them again, flexing my fingers. I feel like I just got handed oxygen after drowning, and it makes me hate myself a little.
Because I’m cooperating.
Because I’m alive.
Because Grandpa is still alive somewhere, maybe, as long as I play along.
I stand, rolling my shoulders, forcing steadiness into my spine.
“Get me what I asked for,” I take control, voice firm. “And tell me how long ago he was shot.”
One man answers, “Couple hours.”
My stomach drops. A couple hours is a lifetime for bleeding.
“Who shot him?” I ask, and I don’t know why I ask except that my mind is trying to map the war around me.
The president’s eyes glint. “That ain’t your business.”
Of course. I nod once, filing it away. Don’t ask about their world. Ask about the wound. “How much did he bleed?” I ask, leaning closer to the injured man, checking his pulse at the wrist. It’s fast. Thready. Not good. He’s hot to the touch and clammy at the same time.
