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Harry stumbled backward, lifting the hem of his filthy T-shirt to wipe his face. “How is it this hot? This is Pennsylvania, for Christ’s sake.”
“It’s not that hot. You’re overdoing it. I haven’t seen your face this red since I found you sucking face with Alison Holbrook when you were seventeen.”
“I was sixteen, and you ruined my first kiss, dick.”
Duncan narrowed his eyes. “According to Alison, you ruined it all on your own, big brother.”
Harry laughed for the first time since Rowan left. “Fuck off.”
Duncan gave him a congenial punch in the shoulder and resumed on the hole Harry had started. “Take ten and get some water.”
Harry only took five, reluctant to give his body too much of a break. The physical exertion took the edge off his anxiety. When he returned, Duncan was on his knees, hunched over the hole in the ground. His brother never passed up an opportunity for a prank, but Harry wasn’t in the mood.
“Find buried treasure?” Harry called out as he approached.
“Jesus value-sized Christ,” Duncan ground out. He gripped his wrist against his chest. The post hole digger lay beside him on the ground, and his posture was odd, strained.
“Cut the shit, Ducky,” Harry said. But as he came closer, he saw unmistakable streams of blood trickling down Duncan’s tattooed skin, dripping off his elbow.
Adrenaline blasted through him.
“Hit a rock, reached in to pull it out.” Duncan’s face had gone as gray as a fish belly. “It’s like a fucking blade down there.”
Blood. Hisbrother’sblood.
Harry’s brain went blank, like sand had been dumped into his skull. He stumbled backward, sagged against a trellis post, and slid to the ground. Duncan was still talking, but his voice sounded muffled. He was usually as loud and rowdy as he was big and broad, but now his voice was quiet.
Duncan scooted toward Harry on his knees. “Hey, man. I need a hand.” A nervous laugh. “Mine’s fucked.” A drop of blood hit the ground. It sent up a tiny puff of dry dirt, apocalyptic as a mushroom cloud.
The low tones of his brother’s voice snapped Harry out ofit. A deep slash crossed the pad of Duncan’s middle finger, red running freely from it. Harry smelled the blood. Wet pennies. Musky and metallic. Dark spots spread through his vision, like ink dripped onto canvas. He crushed his teeth together and fought the blackout.
Goddamnit.
“Harry.” Duncan remained clear and calm. “It’s me. Can you help?”
Breathe, Harry.
It was basic first aid. A seven-year-old could do it.
Blink.
Think.
Move.
Harry thrust his hair out of his eyes and snatched the sweaty bandana from Duncan’s back jeans pocket. He twisted it, ropelike, and gestured for Duncan to present his hand to him. After wrapping the bandana like a tourniquet around the base of Duncan’s finger, Harry sat back and panted like he’d sprinted around the entire vineyard.
“Hold it up.” Harry pantomimed raising his hand. “Higher.”
Duncan held his hand up at eye level between them, with only his wounded middle finger extended. The wiseass grin on his face broke the tension, and Harry blew out an awkward exhale-laugh.
“Fuck you, too,” Harry said.
“Hospital?”
Harry nodded and stood, holding the trellis post for support. “Gonna need stitches. When was your last tetanus shot?”
“No idea.” Duncan got to his feet as well.
