I set the pry bar against Wilder's hand, he flinched—hard—and suddenly his hand was free. The nail was still in the step, though, and an arc of blood splattered against the porch.
“Okay,” I said brightly. “Well, that was easier than I thought. Let’s get you inside.”
The wound was only small, barely a quarter inch at the most. The fact it was bleeding so freely was probably also a good thing—less chance that anything was stuck in there. It had to sting likehell, though, and Wilder was looking even paler than when he’d been nailed to the porch.
He stumbled as he stood upright, and I steadied him with a hand under his elbow and guided him toward the door. The inside of the house matched the outside—cluttered, messy, and in need of a makeover. The newest thing in the place was a couch and recliner in the living room that we passed. Everything else was worn and tired, from the dusty light fittings to the scuffed floorboards, and it smelled vaguely like pizza. It was giving frat house vibes, but I didn’t have time to examine the place further, too busy steering Wilder along the narrow hallway.
By the time we made it into the bathroom, Wilder was weaving like a drunken sailor. He stood in the tiny room staring at his hand, and I had a sudden horrible vision of him collapsing on top of me and pinning me to the floor.
“Wilder,” I said and tried to steer him to sit on the edge of the ugly green bath.
He stayed where he was and blinked at me, his eyes glassy. It was obvious he was checking out.
Shit. Time to use my emergency management skills—also known as Teacher Voice.
“Wilder,” I said, mustering up as much authority as I could. “Sit your ass down.Now.”
He jolted at the sound of my voice and sat on the side of the tub with a thump.
Okay. We were off to a good start.
I took a moment to listen, but the house was silent. I wondered where Gracie was but decided it didn’t really matter—as long as she wasn’t here to see her dad bleeding like a stuck pig. “Hand,” I said, holding my own out, palm up, and Wilder obeyed, laying his injured hand in mine.
The bleeding had slowed down already, and honestly I’d seen worse. There was a reason my brother Camden wasn’t allowed near my dad’s power tools. “Okay,” I said, “we can deal with this.Do you have a first aid kit anywhere, or do I need to go get mine?”
“Under the sink,” Wilder said, swallowing hard. A faint tremor ran through his hand where I was holding it, and I was reluctant to let go.
I crouched down and pulled the first aid box out. It was pretty basic, but I had to admit I was surprised they had one at all. I found the antiseptic and some sterile dressings and said in my best no-nonsense tone, “Wilder. I want you to look at me and stay still.”
He nodded and braced himself, but he didn’t seem able to look away from the hole in his hand, and I knew from experience that it was better if he didn’t watch. See: my brother Camden.
“Eyes on me,” I reminded him, and his gaze snapped up to mine.
I wasn’t sure who was more shocked that he was listening, him or me, but I wasn’t going to question it. I doused the injury in iodine and Wilder flinched, but to his credit he stayed mostly still, even if he was now paler than poached chicken breast.
I checked for dirt or splinters, but it looked like the wound was clean. “I don’t think it needs stitches,” I said as I applied the dressing.
“Got any painkillers in that box?” Wilder said, his voice tight. “Hurts like a bitch.”
I checked in the first aid box but couldn’t see anything. “No, sorry.”
He let out a slow breath. “It’s fine,” he said. “I can deal.”
Wilder was aterribleliar. He also looked like he was about to topple right over into the tub. I remembered that I had some Percocet at home, left from when I’d had my wisdom teeth extracted last year. They were pretty strong, but then Wilder looked like he needed something strong.
Before I went to get them, I asked, “Will there be someone home later to help you look after Gracie?” Not that I was going to volunteer or anything. Not unless it was absolutely necessary.
“She’s away for the weekend,” he said.
“Okay, good.” I stood up and extended a hand.
Wilder stared at it.
“Up,” I said. “We need to move you. I’ve got some Percocet at my house, but I don’t trust you not to fall in the tub while I go get them.”
Wilder took my hand and stood, and I led him down the hallway into the living room. I gave him a gentle shove toward the recliner, but he shook his head and opted for the couch instead. At least he was sitting.
“Stay right there,” I said, using the same warning tone I did on a class of five-year-olds I was expecting to erupt into mischief at any given moment.
