Page 200 of The Next Lie

Airway.

Breathing.

Bleeding.

I rip open his jacket.

“Stay with me.”

His eyes are open, fixed on my face. “Reva.”

“No. Shut up.”

Blood covers my hands immediately. Too much. Warm and slick and wrong. The entry wound is high on his left side, under the ribs. No exit wound I can find from the angle. His breathing is fast, shallow, catching.

I press both hands over the wound.

He jerks.

“I know. I know, I’m sorry.”

He tries to grab my wrist. His hand is weak, bloody, shaking.

“Kid.”

“Do not kid me right now.” My voice breaks. I push harder. “You do not get to show up after I told you not to and then bleed all over a terrace like this is helpful.”

His mouth twitches. A joke. He is trying to make a joke. That scares me worse than the blood.

“Pressure,” I mutter. “Keep pressure. Need packing. Need ambulance. Need⁠—”

My medical bag isn’t here. All my gear…not fucking here.

I have a ball gown, a mask, blood on my hands, and no way to plug the hole in the man who raised me.

I look toward the door. “Help! Somebody help me!”

The words come out too raw to be useful. No one answers. Inside, something slams. A shout. Running.

Cal coughs, and blood stains the corner of his mouth. My vision tunnels.

“No.” I lean over him, one hand still pressing the wound, the other touching his face. “No, no, stay with me. Eyes open.”

His eyes flutter. I slap his cheek. Not hard, just enough, hopefully, to bring him back to me.

“Cal. Look at me.”

He does.

For one second, he is there. My Cal. The man who made pancakes. The man who checked under my bed. The man who lied and loved me and came anyway because someone told him I needed him.

“I’m here,” I say, because I do not know what else to give him. “I’m right here.”

His hand closes over my wrist. Too weak.

“Run,” he whispers.

That word breaks me.