“Ah—damn it!” I hiss and drop the rod, blood already starting to trail down my hand.
Megan’s voice comes fast. “What happened?”
“Hook,” I mutter, assessing it a little closer. It’s past the barb, which means I have to pull it through.
Megan takes a few steps closer. “Oh wow, that’s…in there.”
“Yeah.” I kick open my tackle box and kneel down for my pliers. “It’s fine. I’ve done this before.”
I stand back up, and before I can get started, I glance over at Megan. Something about the way she’s breathing feels…off. Shallow.
“Meg?” I ask. Her face is pale. “You okay?”
She blinks like she’s trying to clear her vision. “I’m—I just—”
And then she tips forward.
I lunge, somehow catching her with one hand before she hits the ground, the other held out awkwardly because of the hook still buried in it. I ease her down, careful not to hurt her, or jam the metal in deeper.
“Hey. Hey, sweetheart.” My voice rushes out, tight. I brush her hair back from her face, tap her cheek lightly. “Baby. Open your eyes.”
No response.
My chest squeezes, instinct shoving emotion aside. With my clean hand, I press two fingers to the side of her neck. Pulse—steady. I watch her chest rise, shallow but even.
Relief hits hard, she just fainted. She’ll wake up in a second.
In the meantime, I grit my teeth and push the hook the rest of the way through. Blood beads instantly. I clamp down with the pliers, cut the barb, and pull it back out the way it came.
“Son of a—” I hiss, cursing under my breath. It stings like fire, sharp and hot, spreading up my hand. My eyes water from the pain, but I shake it off.
Megan stirs with a soft groan, her eyelids fluttering before she blinks up at the sky. I lean closer right away.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “Take it slow, okay?”
Her gaze shifts until it locks onto me. She brings her hands to her head, then rubs at her eyes.
“I think it was…seeing that hook like that,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I murmur, brushing her hair back. “Guess you shouldn’t have looked.”
She exhales, embarrassed. “Yeah, I guess not.”
“No big deal,” I assure her, quickly tucking my bloody hand behind me so she won’t see it. I grab her water bottle with the other and twist the cap loose with two fingers. “Here.”
She sits up slowly and I watch her carefully as she takes a few sips. I’m relieved to see color’s coming back into her cheeks.
“Sorry if I scared you,” she says with a short, nervous laugh.
“It’s fine. I’m good.”
I push to my feet and turn away before she notices, glancing down at my hand. Blood is everywhere, smeared down my wrist, dripping into the grass. I curse under my breath and look for something—anything—to wrap it in. Nothing. So, I yank my shirt over my head, twist the fabric tight, and knot it around my palm.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice still faint but steadier now.
“Yeah,” I answer quickly. “Just need to stop the bleeding. Why don’t you head to the truck? I’ll grab this stuff and we’ll go back, get it cleaned up.”
She nods, moving carefully to her feet. I watch her every step, ready to catch her again if I have to.
