I set the bottle down.
I am empty inside and yet anger still stains the void like a film.
“Can I see?” The girl nods at my shoulder.
I wave her on. Pain will clear my head.
With a pair of shears, the girl cuts away the tattered fabric of my shirt, exposing the knife and the wound it’s jammed into.
“That’s deep.” She makes a face.
“Yes.”
“I can’t… I don’t know… I’m not a doctor.”
“And?”
“I can’t.”
My impatience festers. “Every second you stall is another second lost. Do you want to tell the Witch of the West we lost Dorothy Gale because you couldn’t stomach a little blood?”
The girl pales. “No.” Then, “It’s not a little. It’s a lot.”
“We don’t have time for this.”
Instinct has me pulling the bottle back over. I take another swig from it. My stomach churns.
“I only ever cleaned surface wounds for Delphine. Nothing like this.”
My head is starting to swim from the alcohol. My nerves are buzzy with warmth. The pain is only a phantom ache now. “Pull the knife out. Straight up. Don’t wiggle it. Don’t rock it. Straight. Up.”
She nods solemnly at me.
“Once it’s out, hold the cloth to it to slow the bleeding. Then we’ll reassess.”
“Okay.”
I sink lower in the chair, putting me closer to her height. Compared to me, she’s a tiny thing, barely half as tall. She’s trembling, eyes wide and glassy.
“Don’t fuck this up,” I tell her.
My words break through some of her apprehension.
She huffs out a breath at me. “Are you always this—” She cuts herself off, eyes wide. “I’m sorry.”
“No. Please. Do go on.”
The fire snaps behind me.
“You’re just… unpleasant. Is it because you were stabbed or because you’re always like this?”
For the first time in a very long time, I have the urge to laugh. The sound trembles on the back of my tongue. I bite it back. “I am always this pleasant. Stabbed or not.”
She frowns at me.
I plant my free hand on the table, fingers curled over the edge, bracing myself.
Chin wobbling, she wraps both hands around the wooden hilt of the blade.
