“Lay her down,” Augusto orders.
A vision of him swims above me. His shirt is soaked red from the gash in his chest. So much blood.
“You’re bleeding too,” I whisper, my focus blurring.
He ignores it completely.
Completely.
His hands are on my face, my shoulders, my arms, moving deftly, lightly. He’s scanning, assessing me for wounds.
“Look at me,” he orders softly.
I blink, trying to focus on his face.
His jaw trembles, then his forehead presses against mine, his hands cradling my face.
“You’re hurt,” he says, his voice cracking.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
His hands move again with frightening gentleness.
“You’re going to be okay,” he whispers, voice breaking on the edges. “This is why I practice. Forthis.”
The hallway tilts again, but this time it doesn’t right itself.
A strange warmth spreads down my side, like spilled water seeping into fabric. I frown, confused, and when I instinctively press my hand to my ribs, my palm comes away slick. And red.
“Oh,” I murmur.
Augusto’s head snaps down instantly.
He gently peels back my shirt and swallows. He barks four sharp words.
“Arrow. My bag. Now.”
His eyes lift to mine. They’re not calm anymore—they’re anguished.
“Is she going to be okay?” Paige sounds terrified. I don’t want her to see this. I don’t want her to watch me die.
Another door opens somewhere down the corridor and it’s my mother’s voice I recognize.
“What’s going on? What’s happened?”
Trust my mother to sleep through a series of gunshots.
Wait a minute. My mother? Where am I? Why is my mother here?
I’m sinking into a daze. The sounds around blur into one—the rustle of a bag, the twist of a bottle, the flick of a needle. And then?—
Pain flares white-hot up my ribs and I gasp, my fingers clawing weakly at Augusto’s sleeve.
His free hand instantly catches mine, gripping it firmly.
“Good. That means you’re still with me.”
My right side feels numb. I watch as he inspects the wound, his jaw tightening, lashes lowering as he assesses the depth and severity.
