Page 47 of Red

I nod. “Oh, um, if you could just tell me what way to go, I can get home.”

“Not happening. These woods aren’t safe. You’re lucky you made it this way.”

“Th-thank you.” I unlock the door, and the man looks down at my legs, never dropping the hold on his gun.

The safety of the vehicle gone, I limp over to the side of the truck and brace my hand on the cool metal. The chill is a small relief against the heat of the magic, enough that I almost sigh.

I climb in while they talk through the window for a moment before Fenwick starts driving us down the road.

I groan and lean back in the passenger seat, turning my head away from my escort. The trees part, and we pass a few more trucks—men perched along the rims of the beds, boots dangling over the sides. They’re all carrying guns of different sizes.

Further into camp, a few large, rectangular buildings are up on wheels, set up in rows. We pull up in front of a large one on the right side with a few lights on inside.

Fenwick doesn’t talk, but he grunts when we stop, and I take it as a note to follow him.

We climb up the stairs.

This isn’t my war.

But it’s his, and I’m not letting them take him too.

I pause on the second to last grated stair, and Fenwick turns.

“Sorry.” I grip the icy metal-tubed railing for added measure.

“Hmph.” Fenwick opens the door, and we step inside to a long space filled with medical beds, half of them filled. One man is missing a leg. I stiffen under my layers. There are long rifles next to the door, pointed up. I plant my feet to keep from running. I must hold strong.

An older woman, smaller than me, with bright blue streaks in her gray hair, comes up to Fenwick, bending around him to look at me. I scrunch my face in pain and touch my fingers to the side of my forehead to sell it. She gives me a look I haven’t seen since my mom, full of concern she waves at me to come forward.

“Hi, there. What’s your name?”

“Aly.”

“I’m Beatrice. If you come over to the bed, I’ll take a look at you.”

I nod and follow her over to the white cotton bed between two curtains. The man missing the leg is on the next bed to the left and I avert my eyes.

“Now, dear, you have quite the head wound.”

I look up at Beatrice as she pulls my hat out of the way. She steps away and comes back with a pack of ice wrapped in a cloth. Resting it in my hands, I hold it to my forehead.

“Put it down for just a moment. Let’s get you out of these clothes.”

I groan as she helps pull my jacket off my shoulders. It’s nothing major, but all I can feel are the flames flickering, trying to heal me. My bicep has some deep cuts, and my legs are covered with smaller gashes. She helps me lift my shirt over my head, and I cry out in agony.

“You must have had quite the fall.”

“Yeah.”

She drapes the shirt at the end of the bed. “Well, we’ll bandage you up, and you can rest here for the day.”

“You don’t need to do that. I can just get back home.” I wince.

“Nonsense.” She smiles, and I give the smallest one back.

She bandages my superficial cuts, layering them with thick gauze pads and endless wraps. For the large cut on my arm, she pulls it together with stick-on stitches. For the first time in my life, I’m going to have a scar. The ice pack is now a warm liquid, but I keep it held up against the swelling on my forehead.

“I’m going to give you some anti-inflammatories, since your body is working overtime. Would you like something to eat?”