Page 59 of Princess

We wait for another minute until the gunfire stops completely. Then there are shouts but not scared or angry ones. They sound more like victory.

“We did it,” I whisper to Grant.

His eyes are still pained and are now getting a little fuzzy. It scares me as I see it, but his lips turn up just slightly at the corners. “You did good.”

I make a little sobbing sound. He looks like he’s about to lose consciousness.

Then I hear Jackson’s voice sound from not far away. “Check the buildings. Make sure no one is still hiding. I think we got ’em all.”

“Princess,” Grant rasps.

“I’m right here.”

“There’s a two-way radio on the wall of the guardhouse. Have someone get it when it’s safe. So we can… we can tell our people it’s safe to come out.”

“Okay. Okay, I will.” I’m still desperately pressing on his wound. He’s losing so much blood. It’s all over my hands, my forearms, my jeans.

“Don’t know…” His head turns to the side. His eyes close. “Don’t know if I’ll be able to… do it.”

* * *

Two hours later, I’m sitting in a chair in the bunker clinic, staring at Grant stretched out on a bed.

If we couldn’t have gotten back into the bunker, he might not have survived losing so much blood. But we’ve still got units of stored blood and the equipment to do transfusions, and the doctor told me he would be okay.

They drugged him up while they took the bullet out, so now I’m just waiting for him to wake up.

My body feels like it’s being dragged down by an invisible weight, but at least it’s clean again. I took a shower in my apartment and changed into clean clothes—a sleeveless white top with soft gray knit lounge pants. I didn’t braid my hair again after my shower, so it’s hanging long and loose over my shoulders and back.

It’s in the way, but I don’t really care. I’m not planning to do anything for a while except sit right here next to Grant’s bed.

Mary stopped by a few minutes ago to check on him and give me a fresh bottle of water. She tried to get me to eat something, but my stomach is still queasy.

Now Grant and I are alone in the small, sterile room. It’s a relief. I like it that way.

Eventually he starts to shift slightly in bed. He makes a sound in his throat. He hasn’t even opened his eyes yet, and he murmurs hoarsely, “Princess.”

“I’m right here.” I lean forward and put a hand on his left arm.

He clears his throat and opens slightly bleary eyes. He blinks a couple of times. Then his expression softens. “Hi.”

The smile I give him is probably quite sappy. “Hi.”

“Y’okay?”

“I’m fine. I wasn’t injured. You were.”

He adjusts restlessly, wincing when he moves his injured right leg. “Damn it.”

“The doctor said you’ll be fine. He got the bullet out and said it did minimal damage. Mostly it was the blood you lost that made it touch and go for a little while. But he said you should be good now. You’re supposed to stay off that leg.”

“We’ll see,” he mutters, glancing toward the door as if he’s already planning his escape.

“We won’t see anything. You’re going to stay off that leg for as long as you need to. The crisis is over now. You got shot, which means you have to take a break whether you want to or not.”

He curls his lip at me, but I can tell he isn’t really annoyed. Mostly he looks exhausted.

I can sympathize.

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