Page 81 of Careless Whisper

“Laceration,” I stated automatically to Juanita. “Possible puncture. Let’s get him inside.”

The father was sobbing openly now, stumbling beside me, one hand still touching his son’s ankle like he couldn’t let go.

Elias came running. He didn’t even ask what happened, just took one look at the boy and started barking orders. “Juanita, suction and lidocaine. I need gauze, saline, and a suture tray.Move.”

He scooped the boy into his arms and carried him inside while I held pressure on the wound, praying we weren’t too late.

Inside the clinic, it was focused chaos as it was in situations like this with experienced medical personnel.

Elias laid the kid—Quito, the father told us—on a gurney as I pulled his shirt away. Blood surged fresh and bright from a jagged gash just below his left ribcage.

“No lung involvement.” Elias palpated carefully. “But it’s deep. Clean slice. Probably glass.”

“He fell on a broken bottle,” the father sobbed. “Running…he fell…”

Juanita handed me the irrigation, and I got to work rinsing the wound as Elias numbed the area with lidocaine. The boy clenched his fists, eyes glistening, tears streaking down his face—but he didn’tscream.

He was trying to be brave. My heart went out to him.

“You’re doing amazing,” I told him softly in Spanish, brushing his hair off his forehead. “Casi terminamos. Almost done.”

“Will he be okay?” Juanita whispered, her voice tight with worry.

“Focus, Juanita,” Elias commanded, his tone calm but sharp and then added, I think to comfort her, understanding that she wasn’t an experienced surgical or ER nurse, “We’ve got this.”

And we did.

Elias sutured with clean, precise strokes. I kept the bleeding under control and monitored the boy’s vitals on the basic equipment we had.

Juanita held the boy’s hand and murmured soft reassurances in Spanish while the boy’s father hovered helplessly at the end of the gurney, hands clenched into fists, eyes locked on every movement we made.

It took about twenty minutes—fast, in trauma time. The bleeding slowed, the skin came together, and the color started to return to Quito’s lips.

“No major vessel involvement. Closure’s good. Monitor for infection, but he’s in the clear,” Elias announced.

The father collapsed into a plastic chair against the wall like his strings had been cut. I knelt next to him, removing my gloves. Tears spilled over his cheeks, and he reached out to grab my hand. I let him.

“He’s going to be okay,” I told the father.

As we wheeled Quito toward recovery, his small fingers found my wrist, his grip weak but intentional.

“Gracias,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

I swallowed hard past the lump in my throat. “De nada, corazón.”

Behind me, Elias stood at the doorway, arms crossed, watching me get Quito settled, and for one breathless moment, everything felt…right, as if we weren’t so broken after all.

A while later, I found Elias in the back courtyard, sitting on the old concrete bench under the flowering jacaranda tree. His sleeves were rolled up, his scrub top untucked, and a smear of blood was still on his forearm. He looked tired, but he was quietly and achingly beautiful.

“You were good today.” I sat next to him.

He looked at me, his eyes filled with quiet affection. “So were you. But then, Gigi, you always are.”

We sat in silence for a few moments, the warm breeze carrying the scent of street food and jasmine from down the block. The sky above San Miguel was brushed in gold, fading into the kind of blue that only happened at dusk.

“I miss you,” I blurted out.

His breath shuddered.

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