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She didn’t move. He could feel her breathing against his back, fast and ragged, working back toward even.

“Rachel.”

“I know,” she said, into his jacket. “I know we are. Give me a second.”

He gave her the second. He gave her several. The cold was settling into the maze now that his blood was no longer running as fast as it had been, and he was aware of the wet warmth spreading down his upper arm under his jacket, and he thought, distantly, that this was going to be a whole thing.

“Okay,” she said, finally.

She came around to his side, and he kept his right arm around her, and they walked out.

***

The lights of the festival ground were very bright after the darkness of the maze. Rachel walked with her face turned into his shoulder and her hand knotted in his jacket. He kept his arm around her and kept moving, and he didn’t let go of her, while his shoulder made its objections known with increasing clarity.

Tate was at the entrance with a blanket. He shook it out and put it around Rachel’s shoulders without being asked, which Keith noted and filed away as something he owed Tate for. Rachel pulled the blanket tight and looked up. He watched the gold of the festival lights return to her eyes, slow and then all at once, the way warmth comes back.

Keith’s gaze dropped to Tate’s hand. “Is that a human bite mark?”

“Don’t ask.”

“It’s just—“

“Don’t.”

Keith looked at it another moment. He lowered his voice. “Tetanus?”

Tate scoffed and walked away.

Tiredness weighed on Rachel. She closed her eyes and rested her cheek against Keith’s shoulder.

Les was a few feet away, watching them. He let them get to the entrance, let Tate do the blanket, and then he walked over with his torch in one hand and his other hand in his jacket pocket and the expression of a man holding his temper on a short leash.

“That,” Les said, “was not procedure. That was not protocol. That was not anything I would sign off on and not anything I can defend in writing. You went into an active threat situation without clearance, without backup—“ He paused. He was choosing his words with care, Keith recognized, the care of a man who was angry and was also being fair.

Rachel had gone still beside him.

Keith looked at Les steadily. His shoulder was on fire. “You’d be right to,” he said. “That’s not how I was trained. I would have a very serious conversation with any deputy who did what I just did tonight. I’d understand completely if you decided you didn’t want to work with me.” He paused. “I don’t regret it. I won’t. For some people you do the crazy shit.” He pulled Rachel slightly closer. “That’s all I’ve got.”

She heard every word. She’d think about it later—all of it, what it meant, what came next. Not tonight. Tonight, she kept her eyes closed and her cheek against his shoulder, letting his voice be the thing that held her.

Les was quiet for a moment.

“I see,” he said.

His eyes moved. Dropped. Landed on Keith’s left shoulder and the dark wet spreading down the arm of his jacket and stayed there.

“There’s a medic station by the east entrance,” Les said. “Walk.”

Rachel turned. Keith felt the exact moment she saw it—the slight stiffening, the intake of breath—and then she was in front of him, her hands coming up, her dark eyes going from the shoulder to his face and back.

“Keith—“

“Graze,” he said. “Outer shoulder. I can move everything.”

She scowled at that. “You’re standing here worrying about Tate’s tetanus,” she said, “and you’ve been shot.”

“Barely.”