Page 32 of Bryce

11

It was still well before dawn by the time the fire died out, only the slightest embers giving off light and warmth. I fed it another handful of sticks, watching as they caught and flamed and illuminated our makeshift campsite.

Leslie was sleeping, her back to a nearby tree. Logan was near her feet, on his side. One arm was curled under his head. He was her protector, no doubt. I wondered whether something was growing between them and hoped it was. He seemed like a good man, strong, true, honest.

My gaze flitted over to where Bryce sat, opposite me.

Gate was between us, his chest rising and falling in a slow but steady rhythm. I’d never been so invested in whether a chest moved before that day.

Just as I’d never seen what I’d seen. But I’d needed to look, for if I looked away the flashlight’s beam might falter and leave Bryce unable to work. I’d seen it all. The blood, so much of it, enough to choke me on the stench. The stomach, the liver, so much more.

It was the liver that had been lacerated, a fact which Bryce had cursed until I was certain he’d run out of words to use. Yet he’d sewn it with Logan assisting in cleaning away the blood to give him a better view. Who knew a body held so much blood.

Once that was finished, the bleeding had stopped. We’d watched for as long as it seemed prudent to leave his insides exposed, making certain there was no more damage in need of repair before Bryce had made the decision to sew him up.

That was hours earlier. It seemed an entire lifetime had passed in a single night. A night spent watching, listening, waiting. Aching, though that had passed. I’d expected it to.

Which was why Bryce’s wince when he stretched left me puzzled. “Are you still in pain?” I whispered, mindful of our sleeping companions.

He shook his head. “No. Not terribly so.”

“You winced. You must be in some discomfort.”

“Discomfort is not pain. You asked if I was in pain.”

“Oh, please. Let us argue semantics now. This seems like the best time.” I crawled over to him, circling Gate’s sleeping form.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Checking you as you checked me, you stubborn fool. What do you think?” I hadn’t considered doing any such thing until just then, a fact which hardly pleased me. If I had, he might not still be in pain. I might have been able to help, and he would have healed over the hours we’d sat with Gate.

It took no more than a brief once-over to find the problem, and when I did, horror washed over me again. Just as cold and fresh and overwhelming as it had been upon lifting the door away and finding what lay beneath.

“How did you not know of this?” I gasped before clamping a hand over my mouth, my eyes bulging at the sight of a dark red patch which stretched across his back, the blood having long since soaked into his shirt.

“What is it?” he asked. “I stopped paying attention it. There were other matters at hand.”

“Oh, don’t be a fool.” I didn’t know what to do. All that blood meant he had to be wounded, and badly. The fact that he was still alive and still speaking clearly meant it couldn’t be too severe, even so, he’d never breathed a word. “You’ll have to remove your shirt.”

“Will I?” The sly humor in his voice both repulsed me and set me at ease. Things couldn’t be all that dreadful if he was able to make jokes.

“Aye, you daft thing.” I tried to recall what he’d done while preparing himself for Gate’s surgery. He’d rinsed his hands as best he could, then poured alcohol over them. I did the same, hoping it was enough.

“What do you plan to do?” he asked, working the thick garment over his midsection, then over his head.

I drew a slow, deep breath, closing my eyes as I did. You can do this. This is nothing at all. He needs us.

Yes, he did. And I needed him. While that hardly mattered so much at the moment, and I knew it, the fact still rang in the back of my mind as I opened my eyes and turned to look at what he had just revealed.

“Well, doctor?” he murmured. “What’s your diagnosis?”

“I have to wash away the dried blood, first.” I poured water over the wound, precious water which we had already begun to get low, on after the previous night’s efforts. Just another worry to populate the back of my mind.

To go along with the half-healed wound before me. It wasn’t large, no longer than an inch, but deep if it caused so much bleeding. “Perhaps because you were moving so much, your heart was beating so fast,” I muttered more to myself than to him.

“What’s that?” He looked at me over his shoulder.

“You winced when you moved, didn’t you?”

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