Page 84 of The Storyteller of Krakow

My heart stopped.

I braked so hard the vehicle skidded.

‘Anka!’ I was already out of the seat before the engine died.

The world narrowed to fragments: broken glass glittering in dirt. A dark smear on the side of the ambulance. A medical bag overturned, bandages spilled like pale entrails.

‘Anka!’

A sound answered.

Not my name.

A breath.

I rounded the back of the ambulance.

She lay half beneath the rear bumper, as if she had tried to crawl there for cover. Her uniform was soaked dark. For a moment, I did not understand the colour.

Then I did.

‘No,’ I whispered.

I dropped to my knees beside her. My hands hovered, afraid to touch.

‘Anka,’ I said again, softer. ‘I’m here.’

Her eyes opened with effort. They were unfocused at first, then they found me.

‘You weren’t… supposed to come,’ she murmured.

‘I never listen,’ I said.

Her lips twitched.

Blood seeped steadily from beneath her side. Shrapnel, I realised. Low. Too low.

‘I can fix it,’ I said quickly. ‘I can⁠—’

I pressed my hands to the wound, as if I could push life back in by force. The blood was warm. It slid between my fingers.

‘Lena,’ she breathed.

‘Don’t talk.’

‘Remember what Noor said?’ she croaked.

‘Don’t talk about that!’

‘You’re angry,’ she said softly. ‘Don’t be angry, Lena.’

‘I am angry,’ I said. ‘I’m furious. So you have to live and listen to me shout at you for years.’

She tried to smile again, but it faltered.

‘I’ll get you back,’ I said. ‘I’ll get you back now.’

I did not know how I managed to lift her and get her into the back of the ambulance, climb in after her, and press cloth after cloth against the wound.