Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
My wrists throb as I rub them again, flexing my fingers. I feel like I just got handed oxygen after drowning, and it makes me hate myself a little.
Because I’m cooperating.
Because I’m alive.
Because Grandpa is still alive somewhere, maybe, as long as I play along.
I stand, rolling my shoulders, forcing steadiness into my spine.
“Get me what I asked for,” I take control, voice firm. “And tell me how long ago he was shot.”
One man answers, “Couple hours.”
My stomach drops. A couple hours is a lifetime for bleeding.
“Who shot him?” I ask, and I don’t know why I ask except that my mind is trying to map the war around me.
The president’s eyes glint. “That ain’t your business.”
Of course. I nod once, filing it away. Don’t ask about their world. Ask about the wound. “How much did he bleed?” I ask, leaning closer to the injured man, checking his pulse at the wrist. It’s fast. Thready. Not good. He’s hot to the touch and clammy at the same time.
“He was bleedin’ a lot,” someone says.
“Does he have any medical conditions?” I ask. “Allergies? Medications? Blood thinners?”
The men stare at me like I’m speaking another language. No one answers.
“Anybody know?” I press for more information.
Silence. The injured man’s eyes drift shut.
“Hey,” I say, touching his shoulder. “Stay with me. What’s your name?”
His lips move.
I lean in.
“Duke,” he whispers.
“Duke,” I repeat. “Okay. Duke, I need you to tell me if you have any allergies.”
His eyes flutter. “Penicillin,” he breathes.
Good. Something. “Any medications?”
He shakes his head faintly. “Any conditions?”
“None.” His head droops.
I check his pupils as best I can without a light. I press lightly around the wound, feeling the heat, assessing swelling. I look for an exit wound along his back or abdomen.
Nothing obvious.
The bullet might still be inside. My stomach twists.
A man returns with a plastic bin—like a first aid kit, but larger. Another brings a grocery bag with bottles clinking inside. The bag they bring from my car wasn’t my back up medical kit, but my spare change of scrubs bag. It has toiletries for if I get held over for an additional shift and need to shower at the hospital. My pen light, stethoscope, pulse oximeter, and other things are in the other bag still in my car.
“This bag doesn’t have my medical supplies. It’s useless.” I inform the room. “What’s in the tub?” They dump it onto the floor beside me: gloves, gauze, tape, rubbing alcohol, peroxide, a cheap suture kit still in packaging, a flashlight, a bottle of ibuprofen, and—God help me—a bottle of whiskey.
“Antibiotics?” I ask.
The president’s mouth tightens. “None.”
“Then he’s at risk for infection,” I explain.
He leans against the doorframe like he’s bored. “Then don’t let him get infected.”
I want to scream. Instead, I breathe. In. Out. Think smart. “You have a thermometer?” I ask.
A man shrugs. “No.”
“Blood pressure cuff?”
“No.”
“Pulse ox?”
Blank stares. Of course.
Fine. I improvise.
I wash my hands in the bathroom sink as best I can. The water runs rusty for a second before it clears. I scrub like I’m about to step into an OR, even though I’m about to do this in a dusty bedroom with guns at my back.
When I come back, I pull on gloves. Double up if I can. I lay out gauze. I use alcohol to wipe anything that might touch him. I rip open the suture kit and stare at it like it’s a cruel joke.
I can suture.
I’ve sutured in emergencies under supervision. I’ve assisted. I’ve done wound care that would make most people faint. I even stitched up a stranger in my house before.
But removing a bullet? I swallow hard.
“Duke,” I begin, forcing calm into my voice. “I’m going to change the dressing. It will hurt.”
He nods faintly. One of the men steps closer.
“You make him scream, I’ll make you feel it,” he warns.
I look up at him, eyes steady. “If you want him alive, you let me do my job,” I state, and I’m amazed my voice doesn’t shake. “The rules here and expectations are out of line. You want him to live, I gotta do what I gotta do and it damn sure isn’t gonna feel good you fuckin’ tool.”
The president smiles like he likes the defiance.
“Do what you need to,” Duke tells me. “I’m not going back to prison.”
There is it. I’ve dealt with this in the Emergency Department. People not wanting to give names because they have active warrants and know being reported, like a gunshot wound, leads to lock up.
I peel away the towel slowly. The wound oozes. Not spurting—thank God—but seeping, steady. I press fresh gauze down, applying pressure. Duke groans, teeth clenched.
“Breathe,” I tell him. “In. Out. That’s it.”
My hands move like I’m back in the hospital, like I’m in control.
Except I feel anything but in control.
I’m a nurse in a room as a hostage with a man’s life under my palms and my grandfather’s life somewhere else in someone’s hands.