Page 79 of Ladybirds

Sara sends him a pointed glare that she can only hope screams shut up. Seth’s attention seems more focused on her lips—or maybe Ansel? He keeps rubbing his face against her chin, purring loudly against her cheek.

Miles pauses. “And the rest of it?”

Seth glances down his body. “More or less the same, actually.”

“…Uh huh.”

Seth rolls his eyes. “Give it a few more years, doctor—I’m sure you’ll find much stranger cases.”

Miles looks at her, eyebrows raised in what Sara can only interpret as ‘where the hell did you find this guy’?

Sara doesn’t dare even try to answer. Glancing at the deep purple bruising along Seth’s side, she asks, “What about his ribs? You don’t think they’re broken, do you?”

Miles huffs on a laugh. “You know? That’s a great question, Sara. If only there was a place your boyfriend could go to find out.”

Sara doesn’t even have the energy to correct him. In her arms, Ansel squirms—nails biting into her shoulder—until she sets him down. He scampers down the hall, no doubt beelining for the spot he’s made for himself under her bed.

Miles pulls out sutures, opening the package with careful, aggravated hands. “You look like shit.”

“I haven’t slept in—well, ages really.”

Miles’ eyes narrow. “Are you on something?”

“No, unfortunately. Though I wouldn’t say no to a spot of gin.”

“There a reason you’re not sleeping?”

Seth’s expression hardens. “None I care to share at the moment, no.” He grunts as the hooked needle slides in, glaring. “Feel free to drop this irrelevant line of questioning. If you absolutely must know, I have no plans of hurting or involving her in something that could.”

“Yeah? That why her foot’s in a boot and her chin’s all banged up?”

Sara doesn’t miss the way Seth recoils, face paling. Scowling, she resists the urge to slap Miles’ shoulder, but only because his steady hands are preoccupied knitting Seth’s flesh back together. “Will you stop? That wasn’t his fault.”

Miles scoffs. “Right. It was the moose.”

Seth doesn’t answer. He’s too exhausted.

Sara can see it in his face—the way his eyes struggle to remain open, the hitch in his breath the moment he catches himself drifting too deep. She suspects it’s only the pain and sheer stubbornness that keeps him awake. The silence is tense, suffocating, as Miles finishes his work. It’s only when the last stitches are tied and the open wounds nearly dressed, that Seth speaks.

“Antibiotics,” he murmurs, eyes lifting drowsily. “Do you have any?”

“No, because carrying a pharmacy around is illegal,” Miles grumbles, tying off the last bandage with a little more force than Sara believes to be strictly necessary.

Seth winces.

Sara glares.

She’s tempted to accuse Miles of being petty, but the truth is both of them have done nothing but push at each other’s buttons the entire time, and she really doesn’t have the energy to play peacemaker. Not tonight. “Should we be worried about infection?”

Seth makes a small sound in the back of his throat—probably irked that she’s even asking—but Miles seems more concerned with her phrasing. “Oh, so it’s we now?”

“Miles…” She says his name like a warning.

He rolls his eyes. “I can write a prescription,” he grumbles, rifling through his bag. “Make sure his pasty ass finishes it.”

Pulling out his prescription pad, he clicks a pen and begins to fill out the blanks. “Last name?”

Sara pales. “He doesn’t—“

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