Page 74 of Faith Among Monsters

The shirts pressed to Dax’s wound are soaked through now, dark and dripping.

Too much blood.

Way too much.

I don’t remember getting to the med wing. I don’t remember running through the halls or shoving open doors.

I just remember Dax. His body, too still. His skin, too pale.

The operating room is a blur of motion, but my focus locks on Wilkes.

Wilkes is hunched over Dax, hands slick with blood, digging for the bullet with the kind of focus that says he’s in too deep to second-guess himself.

Dax should be moving. He should be thrashing, fighting, screaming, anything but this.

The silence is suffocating.

Zachs moves fast, tearing through cabinets, tossing anything remotely useful onto the bed, gauze, sutures, needles, tubing. It lands on Dax’s chest like he’s already a corpse.

Trip pulls a chair to the bedside and sits, solid as a goddamn mountain, watching, unmoving.

Then it clicks.

They’re treating him, but none of them have a fucking clue what they’re doing.

Zachs fumbles with an IV line, hands steady but uncertain. His usual cocky confidence is gone, replaced with something raw.

They’re guessing. Winging it.

Dax doesn’t have time for this.

“Unless you know what the hell you’re doing, get out,” I snap, my voice cutting through the stale air. “And keep those things out of this building.”

No one argues. No hesitation, no sarcasm. They listen. Because this is Dax.

The others clear out, leaving us with nothing but the sound of Wilkes working and the wet drag of Dax’s breath.

Zachs curses, trying to push a needle into Trip’s arm. It slips. “Fuck,” he mutters.

Trip doesn’t even react.

I push forward, shoving Zachs aside. “Move.”

I grab Trip’s arm, pressing my fingers against his skin, feeling for the strongest vein. Good flow. He’ll make a good donor.

“Alcohol,” I say, already reaching for the wipes.

Trip barely glances at me. “No need.”

Zachs tosses an entire bucket of alcohol wipes onto the bed.

I rip one open and swipe Trip’s arm anyway. “There’s always a need.”

I take the needle, inhale, steady my hands.

This, I can do.

I get the needle in on the first try, the sharp snap of punctured skin drowned out by my pounding heart. Trip barely flinches.