Page 64 of Her Only Hero

I hung up, and the phone jumped out of my hand.

The guy mumbled incoherently again. Clearly seeing his face now, this was the guy who had knocked me down that day. He opened his eyes.

My arm shook from maintaining pressure on the wound. “Who are you?”

“Dave,” he said weakly and seemed completely nonthreatening.

“Dave, hang in there. An ambulance is on the way.”

He closed his eyes.

Blood soaked through the T-shirt, but I kept holding it to the wound. He appeared to be out of it again. Seconds felt like hours. I sniffed. Tears pooled in my unblinking eyes. What had I done?

Finally. Sirens.

Suddenly, time sped up. A couple of male uniformed paramedics entered the basement. Black shiny boots stepped beside me, but I kept pushing on the saturated cloth.

“Hi, I’m Will, and this is my partner, Alex,” the taller attendant said and crouched. He had a crew cut and wore a kind expression that touched my soul. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I shot him,” I said. “He’s an intruder.”

He pulled on gloves. “What’s your name?”

“June. June Harber.”

The other medic, I forgot his name, had a colorful tattoo of an autumn tree on his forearm. I wondered what it signified. He turned his lips up slightly and spoke in a comforting tone. “June, we can take over now.”

“Oh, okay.” I backed away and watched.

Will had already opened his case, removed scissors, and cut away the injured man’s hoodie. He opened a package and applied a compression dressing.

The paramedic with the tattoo jumped in and took a blood pressure reading. “BP’s low. Starting an IV.”

I watched in horror. The real-life horror I’d created. If only this wasn’t real. A bad dream I’d yet to wake from. Please let it not be real.

The door slammed open. Patrick. He came over and put his arms around me. I leaned against him, realizing how shaky my legs were.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. No.”

He rubbed my back in reassurance. “I’m just going to speak with the attendants.”

The exchange of words barely registered in my head as I looked down. I opened and closed my hand.

“June, can you tell me what happened?” Patrick asked. “What is it?”

“My hand is sticky,” I said.

He looked at my palm and fingers. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

In the bathroom, I pumped a handful of foam onto my bloodstained hands. I scrubbed vigorously and rinsed long after the red bubbles were gone. I thoroughly dried in between my fingers.

Patrick waited patiently and escorted me to the couch. “You’re shaking.”

“Don’t worry. I’m getting used to it,” I said in an attempt at humor.

“Let me make you a tea, and we’ll sit for a bit.”

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