Blood pools over her upper body. I push to my knees and press my hands to her shoulder.
She cries out.
“Somebody call 9-1-1!”
She stares at me, her chin tipping back in pain.
“Hang on. Ok? Just hang on.” I press harder, and warm, dark blood seeps through my fingers.
She groans, and it’s gut-wrenching.
A couple of guys drop beside me. One hands me a T-shirt, and I press the fabric to her wound.
She grinds out another moan between her teeth.
“Just hang on,” I breathe. “Hurry up!” I yell.
My eyes dart around, seeking help, but snag on T-Bone, holding someone down while my teammates encircle him.
“I got. . .blood on it.” Her voice is soft and strained, but her mouth relaxes a little as she breathes in and out.
I meet her eyes, and a tear trickles out.
I glance at the thick fabric surrounding her—my sweatshirt.
I press my hands down again, making sure I keep the pressure firm. It’s the only thing I know to do.
She groans deeply.
“It’s ok.” I choke. “I’ve got more.” A tear drips down to my chin. “Just hold on, ok? For me. Please.”
“What do you need, man?” Ricketts shoves someone out of the way and kneels on the other side of her.
“Don’t touch her,” I demand, hearing sirens in the distance.
Her eyes begin to drift.
“Do you hear that?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Ryder. Do you hear that? Just hang on. They’re almost here. Please. Just hang on.”
“Dammit!” I press hard as blood stains the white fabric.
Come on, Jones. Just hang on.
______
I push through the bathroom door, charging for the stall, and lunge for the toilet as all the contents of my stomach spill out.
Breathing through my nose, I wait to have another go.
I rest my hands on my knees, taking a minute before flushing and moving to the sink.
My hands shake, completely covered in dried brown blood—Ryder’s blood.
My stomach lurches again, but there’s nothing left.
