I shuffle over to my sleeping mat, using my uninjured arm to feel around for my mini lantern, the one that Jack laughed at earlier because he said it looked like something I stole from a garden gnome. I switch it on the lowest brightness level, and my breath comes out in a stuttered exhale as I look down to survey the damage.
Another wave of dizziness hits me, along with a surge of nausea that threatens to bring up all that delicious lasagna from earlier. The stark whiteness of the lantern makes the thick line of blood trickling down my arm appear a morbid, dark crimson.
Crap.
This was not what I signed up for.
I manage to pull Marigold off the tree branch with a lot of grunting and puffing, rummaging for my rudimentary first aid kit. Jack’s fancy one would be better, but this one should have a bandage I can use to wrap my arm and slow down the bleeding, at least for now.
But how do I hide the evidence of all this blood from Jack?We’d better get out of this darn canyon tomorrow. I don’t think I can keep this a secret for very long.
I growl and end up emptying my backpack, not having the energy to patiently sift through the contents. If I can clean up this wound well enough before Jack gets back, I’ll play it down as a little scratch and tell him a kiss will make it all better.
Perched on my knees, I use my teeth to rip open a gauze packet because my useless hands won’t stop shaking. But it’s like mopping up a gallon of milk with one square of toilet paper. The gauze is soaked within seconds, and all I manage to do is make a bigger mess by spreading blood around.
So much blood.
We may be dealing with more than a scratch.
Oh my gosh, what if I’m stuck here for days! I’m not equipped for treating gangrene. What if I lose an arm?
The murky sky begins to spin again, this time black dots creeping into my periphery.
A floating feeling washes over me before I’m suddenly cradled against a warm, hard chest.
“I’ve got you,” Jack’s voice promises, holding me close while his heart thumps rapidly against my ear.
I could get used to this.
But canhe?
“You’re okay. I’ve got you,” he proclaims once more before easing me away and turning the brightness up on the lantern. “I’m so sorry, Lo.”
Here we go. Guilt coats his voice and drags his brow lower, making my heart sting, and I want to plead with him to take his unnecessary apology back and draw me closer again.
“I should have stayed with you,” he laments. His hands work frantically, and he empties his backpack until he finds his first aid kit. “You’re gonna be okay,” he reassuresboth of us, but he avoids eye contact as he hastily rips open another pack of gauze.
“Jack, Iamokay. It’s just a scratch.”
Maybe.
Probably not.
He straps on a headlamp before pulling on a pair of gloves. I try to tell him again that it’s only a small cut, but he pierces me with a stern look that I only catch when I’m blinded by the sudden brightness of his headlamp aimed my way, making me snap my mouth shut.
I’m using every ounce of energy to stifle the winces and moans of pain threatening to erupt. He moves his head closer, using his more effective supplies to clean the wound on my upper arm, then he lets out a curse.
“This isn’t a scratch, Lo,” he rasps.
“Okay, agash.”
“You were shot.”
“THERE’S A BULLET IN ME!?” I screech.
“It only grazed you. But it could’ve been worse…a lot worse.”
“Jack, I’m starting to feel woozy again,” I mumble through a ragged breath, hating that I can’t keep it together. The gangrene must be setting in. Poor Giorgio. He’ll be an orphan.
