Page 94 of Shrapnel

“God, please. No. Don’t do this. I’m going to get you out of here. Just…please say something…”

The fire in his chest was spreading. He could taste ash. The burning sensation was fading and the ringing in his ears had turned into a gentle sloshing. Everything felt very far away.

At least I’m not alone.

18

These are the Reasons I Tell Everyone I’m Fine

Owen looked downat the blood welling from his fingernail. It started small—a raw patch of soft pink skin that slowly darkened, beading up into a perfect little bubble of blood, rising higher and higher until it finally wobbled and began running across his finger. Clinging to his skin until it finally lost the fight with gravity, falling to the ground. A tiny little splotch on the wood beside his scuffed sneaker. He shifted his foot, hiding the stain.

He wasn’t sure why it mattered. Not when there was so much blood on his hoodie. On the floor. On the bed. The crisp white sheets under Jamie were stained red. Some of it was even beginning to curdle into a brownish color. Why did blood do that? He should ask someone.

Molly’s long, lovely hair was pinned back. Thick strands fell from the clippy thing she had used to hold it away from her face. Owen’s sister had some of those. She left them all over the house and he always jumped when he saw them in his peripheral. They looked like spiders.

The doctor slipped off a pair of gloves, tossing them in the trashcan Rhett brought in. She settled her manicured hands on her hips, looking down at her patient.

Jamie was sleeping now. When Owen had dragged him to the Sunspot he had been alternating between passing out and wheezing, a harsh shrieking noise that sounded like someone trying to push air through a teeny hole. He supposed the teeny hole was Jamie’s swollen throat.

Somehow, Owen managed to get Jamie from the abandoned bank. He didn’t really remember that part. All he remembered was crying, thick tears dripping onto his lips as he spoke to a crumpled Jamie in the back seat. He had been trying to drive but his hands were shaking and every time Jamie dropped into unconsciousness, Owen’s tears had started up again.

He had wanted to call 911. Throw the responsibility onto someone else, sit back, and just wait for the ambulance to come and save Jamie. There would be questions, but Grant could handle them. He handled that kind of stuff all the time.

But just as Owen had pulled his phone out, Jamie’s eyes cracked open, and he made eye contact. Just for a second. It was enough. Owen stuffed his phone back into his pocket and carried the lanky assassin back to the car. To the Sunspot.

Molly didn’t ask a lot of questions. That didn’t stop Owen from regurgitating answers. She didn’t acknowledge him as she began examining Jamie. Rhett had taken his limp body into the side room and set him on a futon. For someone who was allegedly ‘done with this shit’, Molly had a lot of equipment. Before Owen could even enter the room, she had an oxygen mask over Jamie’s bloody face and an IV in his arm.

Rhett put a glass of water into his hands and Owen took it. He’d rolled up his sleeves and Owen could see the chain tattoo on his arms.

“Did it hurt?” he asked hoarsely.

Rhett glanced down at the tattoos. “Not as much as the real thing.”

He blanched, taking a sip to hide his horror. Was everyone in his lifefucking traumatized?

“Well,” Molly was monitoring the squiggly lines on her monitor. “He’ll live. Probably.”

Owen finished his water. “Probably?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know what the fuck this stuff is.” She gestured to some of the sand that had fallen from Jamie’s hair and clothes to the bed. “I pumped him full of every antibiotic, antihistamine, and pain med I safely could. His vitals aren’t great, but they’re stabilizing.”

Owen’s leg began shaking. “His lips turned blue. Like really blue.”

Molly glanced over at Rhett. One of those that’s-bad-but-don’t-tell-him-that looks.

“I don’t have an EEG to monitor his brain activity. If he was without oxygen for a while, he…we’ll just have to see when he wakes up.”

Nodding like he understood, Owen tapped his bloodied fingernails on the glass. Rhett had forced him to sit on a chair in the corner of the room, next to a large stack of cardboard boxes. He hadn’t moved.

Molly mumbled something about rush and exited the room. Rhett looked between the door and Owen. He knelt in front of him, laying a big, inked hand on his knee.

“Do you have someone to call?”

Shit.“I need to call the Weavers. They’ll be furious and I—”

“I’ll call Elijah.”

Owen didn’t know Rhett all that well. He had met him once or twice in passing, but right now he felt like he was the only one keeping him sane.