Page 19 of Echo: Line

The pressure bandage has soaked through. I peel it away carefully, and fresh blood wells from the wound. It's bad. Worse than I thought. The entry wound is a ragged tear in his side, probably from shrapnel or a ricochet. No exit wound visible, which means whatever hit him is still in there.

"Alex." Tapping his face, trying to get some response. "I need you to wake up. Tell me what to do."

His eyelids flutter. For a second, his eyes focus. Recognition. Then awareness.

"Bleeding," he mumbles.

"I know. How do I stop it?"

"Pack it." Each word costs him. "Gauze. Pack the wound. Then... pressure."

My hands shake as I tear open gauze packages from the trauma kit. First aid training—every agent gets it—but this is battlefield medicine, and I'm not a combat medic.

"Like this?" I press gauze into the wound, and he arches off the couch with a strangled sound.

"Keep going." His hand finds my wrist, grips hard. "Has to... fill the wound cavity."

I pack more gauze in, each layer making him tense. Blood seeps around my fingers. The wound is deep. Too deep.

"More." His voice fades.

"There's no more room?—"

"Make room."

Pushing harder, forcing the gauze deeper until the wound cavity fills. His grip on my wrist tightens to the point of pain, but he doesn't cry out. Just breathes through it, harsh and ragged.

"Pressure dressing." He releases my wrist. "Wrap it. Tight as you can."

I work fast, wrapping the pressure bandage around his torso. He has to lift slightly, and the movement makes him bite off a curse. But together we get it secured, tight enough that the bleeding finally starts to slow.

"Good." The word comes out slurred. "You're good at this."

"I'm terrible at this." My hands are still shaking. "You walked me through it."

"Still counts." His eyes drift closed.

"No." I tap his face, harder this time. "Stay awake. You said shock is the enemy. So stay awake and talk to me."

"Bossy." But his eyes open, focus with effort.

"You mentioned that already." I sit back on my heels, finally letting myself breathe. The cabin is cold. Alex is cold. I need to keep him warm. "We need to keep you warm."

A pile of old blankets sits in the corner, smelling like mildew and mice. I shake them out, and a small gray mouse shoots from the folds and scurries across the floor.

A scream rips from my throat.

From the couch, Alex makes a sound. Laughter. Weak and raspy, but definitely laughter.

"Are you seriously laughing?" Heat floods my face. "You're half-dead."

"Takes on... Committee operators..." Each word costs him. "Screams at... mouse."

"Shut up." But I'm almost smiling too. "Mice are different."

"Clearly."

I drape the blankets over him, careful to avoid his wound. He's still shivering.