Page 20 of Fighting for You
I open the car door, and the music gets louder. Not seeing anyone around, I grab my emergency bag from the trunk and head to the makeshift road, using my phone as a flashlight. About fifty yards in, I’m blinded by a bright light in my face.
“Shit, sorry, Margot,” a familiar voice says, coming closer. The flashlight lowers, and in the dim illumination of both of our lights, I make out Kori approaching. “C’mon, it’s just up ahead.”
She turns and quickly makes her way back from where she came. I walk a little faster to catch up to her. “What’s going on, Kori? Where’s Hayes?”
She throws a look over her shoulder, a blend of guilt and sadness, but doesn’t say anything. I follow her, the music continuing to get louder. There’s light ahead pouring out from between the trees.
When we finally step into the clearing, the bass vibrates my chest cavity as I look around at the mass of people milling about. Some are standing around, laughing and drinking in small groups, some are sitting on the tailgates of their pickups smoking. Off to the left appears to be a dancefloor of sorts with a DJ on an elevated platform.
The whole area is lit up by tall floodlights, the majority of which are aimed on a leveled center area where the grass is almost non-existent, just trampled dirt. The space is about twenty feet by twenty feet, and I can’t take my eyes off of it, mainly because they catch on the small pools of blood slowly seeping into the ground in the middle of the brightly lit area.
Kori moves me quickly through the throngs of people around the perimeter of the cleared space to a trailer hitched to a large truck that’s just outside the reach of the lights. Agenerator rumbles next to the trailer with wires leading out in all directions.
“He’s just in there,” Kori says, motioning with her head to the trailer door. I heave out a sigh and turn the knob to open the door to whatever my brother has gotten himself into now.
“Booger, thank fuck,” he says, relief and worry evident on his face. The door bangs shut behind me, and as soon as I take in the rest of the interior, adrenaline begins to course through me, and my heart speeds up.
Hayes is standing at the edge of a small table, his hands cradling the head of a young shirtless man who’s lying on the surface, his legs dangling. The man—boy, really—groans, and I take in his state. His face is covered in bruises and cuts dripping blood onto the table beneath him. One of his shoulders looks dislocated, and he keeps trying to reach for it.
“Shhh, don’t move, Max. You’re going to be okay,” Hayes murmurs and looks up at me. “Margot’s going to take care of you.” Hayes’ usually composed, stoic face is etched with concern. There have only been a handful of times I’ve seen Hayes be anything other than calm, controlled. He can usually assess a situation and immediately take charge of resolving any issues. Seeing this boy hurt has him unravelling.
I move closer to get a better look at his condition. “Hi, Max. I’m Margot. Is it okay if I take a look?” I ask, my eyes running down from the cuts on his face to the deformed shoulder to the bruising on his ribs, all the way down to his sneaker-covered feet. I catalogue the injuries I can see, all consistent with a physical assault.
Max groans and slightly nods. I look up to Hayes. “What happened?”
“He was in a fight.”
I look at him incredulously. “Yeah, I got that. What happened?” I refocus on Max as I use some hand sanitizer andput on examination gloves. I gently feel around his ribs, and he winces. I then move to his shoulder and lastly, his face. A few of the cuts might need a stitch or two, but nothing appears to be broken. Reducing the dislocated shoulder is the priority.
“He took a couple of big hits and went down hard right onto his shoulder,” Hayes explains. “It took him a while to come to.”
“He probably has a concussion. And his shoulder is dislocated. He needs to go to the hospital,” I say.
“No, no hospital. Just set it, and fix up his face,” Hayes insists.
“Hayes. Wh—what is going on here?” I ask.
“Just fix him, Margot!” he snaps, and I flinch. I rarely see his anger, and it causes a pit in my stomach to open up. I push the anxiety away and focus on Max.
“Okay, Max. We’re going to reduce your shoulder first. I’m going to go slow, and I’m sorry in advance if it hurts,” I say gently as I place one hand on his upper arm near the elbow and grip his wrist with the other, positioning his elbow at a ninety degree angle. “Try to relax your arm as much as possible, and take a few deep breaths.” I hold steady as his chest moves up and down in long pulls, and his arm grows more lax in my hands.
Slowly, I rotate the arm toward myself, keeping the elbow tucked into his body. His face screws up in pain, and I pause my movement, giving him a minute to breathe and for his muscles to relax. I start moving slowly again, and once his forearm is rotated almost ninety degrees from his body, I see the shoulder joint slot into place, and Max groans.
After gently placing his arm across his chest, I dig through my bag for a sling. Hayes helps me raise Max’s torso off the table, and I slide it behind his back and secure his arm in place.
“It needs to be iced regularly for the next few days, and he needs to take ibuprofen to help with the swelling,” I say to my brother since I expect him to take responsibility for the boy.
I then pull out my wound care kit and set up the supplies next to Max.
“Any chance you have warm water here? I need to clean up his face,” I say, looking around the small trailer.
Hayes stands and opens the door. “Kori,” he says to her. She must have been standing right outside, waiting for us. “Bring me a few bottles of water.” Hayes comes back to us, and we sit and wait for Kori.
A few minutes pass, and then the door opens, Kori walks in carrying an armful of bottled water. “How’s the kid?” she asks, eyeing Max from afar. Another young face sporting a bruised eye pops in through the door to get a look but quickly rushes out following a glare from my brother.
Hayes grunts in dismissal and turns to me. “It’s not warm. Will it do?” I nod to him and grab some packets of gauze, wetting them with one of the bottles and gently wiping at Max’s face to clear off the blood and dirt.
Thankfully, the cuts don’t seem as bad as I first thought once the grime is gone. I can apply liquid bandage to most, the others are shallow enough I’ll be able to place Steri-Strips.
