Page 149 of Property of Whiskey

A cot lies on the floor beneath the far wall with clean blankets and pillows piled on it. A folding table holds gauze, bottled water, antibiotic ointment, disposable gloves, and the kind of basic medical supplies every rural department and biker club apparently keeps by the case. Somebody left the overhead fluorescent light off and brought in a lamp instead, warming the ugly institutional walls without making the room feel like an interrogation box.

Kaylee sits propped against the pillows. Clean. Hair washed.

A fresh bandage wraps her side beneath an oversized shirt. There’s more color in her face than when I last saw her, though not enough for me to stop counting the seconds between breaths.

Bullet sits in a chair beside the cot with his boots stretched out and his arms folded. He looks like somebody told him he had to stay exactly there, and he plans to make that everybody else’s problem.

He looks up when I enter. His expression hardens.

Kaylee’s doesn’t. “Deputy.” Her voice is stronger.

I stop far enough inside the room not to crowd her. “Hi.”

Bullet looks between us. “You want me to go?”

Kaylee’s fingers immediately tighten around the blanket.

“No.”

He stays. No argument, no wounded pride, no reminding her that he’s the one who carried her out.

Just stays.

That tells me more than anything else could.

Sophie hands me the mug she’s carrying. “Coffee.”

I take it. “Thanks.”

“It’s terrible.”

“Why give it to me?”

“Misery loves company.”

I glance through the doorway toward Whiskey. He’s talking quietly to Legend in the hall.

“Apparently everybody around here believes suffering builds character.”

Sophie follows my gaze. “Yeah.”

There’s enough history packed into that one word that I leave it alone.

For now.

I look back at Kaylee. “How’re you feeling?”

“Tired.”

“Pain?”

“Some.”

“Headache?”

She nods.

“Dizzy?”