Page 10 of Liquids

I shake my head at her.

The two guys in the center of the grass have started grappling now, trying to kick each other’s legs out. After another couple of minutes of this, a man steps forward and blows a whistle, telling them to actually start fighting rather than just holding each other at bay. The larger guy steps back, because that’s what they’re supposed to do I think, and Dancer does something—I don’t see what, probably kicks him in the balls—but the big guy goes down heavily. There aren’t many rules in this thing, just that people have got to fight, or maybe I should say, keep the crowd entertained, and that’s why the whistle gets blown.

The big guy is taking no prisoners, though, because he hooks out a foot and takes down Dancer, too, and they roll around on the grass, both of them trying to get on top.

After a couple of minutes, Dancer gets free and his leg flashes out, swift and furious, connecting viciously with the other guy’s gut. As the big guy tries to lumber to his feet, Dancer follows up by kneeing him in the face and his neck jerks back as he collapses sideways. Dancer kicks him in the groin and stands back, his breath making white clouds in the night air. Watching. The other man doesn’t stir.

The referee, such as he is, steps in, holds up his hand, and starts counting. Concern burns through me when the big guy doesn’t move. Then the whistle blows, and Dancer’s companions come back into the circle, punching the air.

“Well, that was unexpected,” the man in front of me says.

“Yeah, he’s vicious. See that waist punch? Deliberately targeting his liver.”

Nausea bubbles in my stomach. Someone has stepped forward to help the guy on the ground, and Jesus … it’s Dr. Moreno. Another Italian. Are they all connected? Him, Angelo, Marco … Dr. Moreno came here years ago as a family doctor and never left. He’s small and round and beams a lot. A decent doctor, too. I’ve never seen him here before. But my nursing training is already kicking in, because, whether women are allowed at this fight or not, if someone is in trouble, I can’t stand on the sidelines. I push out of the circle and hurry across the grass.

“Is he all right?”

Dr. Moreno glances up at me with raised eyebrows and exhales through his teeth. “They should have more rules,” he says, voice accented and thick. “Every time I tell Marco … that kick …”

He’s examining the guy’s abdomen when two guys appear behind him.

“Get the stretcher,” he says, over his shoulder. “And find me a neck brace. We have to take him to the hospital. Immediately.”

Dr. Moreno grimaces at me. “I’ll be happier once he’s there. You need to keep an eye on this. Come.”

What? Keep an eye on what?

He takes hold of my arm and leads me through the circle of men, and suddenly we’re standing in front of Marco.

“I’m taking him to the ER. Carlotta’s a qualified nurse. She’ll step in for the next fight.”

Step in? What the fuck? He’s joking, right? And how does he know I used to be a nurse? It’s been a long time since I practiced. But Marco nods.

“Oh, but I don’t think I …”

Dr. Moreno pats my shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” he says.

After the useless art degree that got me nowhere, I trained as a nurse, but the system ground me down and spat me out. The local hospital fired me for what they said was “just cause.” Basically, that guy putting his hand on my ass. But if I’m being honest with myself, it was also my drinking, too. The hangovers and the sometimes shaky hands. They were kind enough not to mention that when they got rid of me. Which meant I could get the job I now have: caring for a bunch of little old ladies.

“Dr. Moreno, I can’t do that. I’ve been out of nursing …”

He leans in. “There’s no one else.” He sweeps his hand around. “You think anyone here would understand what to do or even care? You’ve seen the mess he’s in.” He motions toward the two guys who are loading the stretcher into the back of a van. “I have to go. None of this is official. I’m here to keep people alive.” His eyes narrow on me. “You need to keep people alive, too, Carlotta.”

I nod, swallowing. He presses a set of keys into my hands. “Everything is in my car. Blue Passat. Bring it back to town after.”

Jesus. I can’t drive his car! How much vodka have I drunk? I can’t believe he’d trust me with it.

“I’ve been drinking and …”

He shakes his head. “Then stop now, yes? Bring the car back to town. I have to go.” And he hurries over the open ground toward the van and hitches himself into the back. A guy slams the doors, and the driver revs across the flattened grass, the van’s taillights fishtailing over the field before it exits through a gate onto the rutted road.

“Is he okay?”

Marni.

I turn to find her standing behind me, face pink, wrapped in her large coat. “I have no idea. The doctor wants me to look after the fighters. I think he’s the unofficial medical support here.”

“Ooo, kudos,” Marni says.