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MINKA
It takes an hour for Aubree and me to work our way through each person who needs a little help. We take turns holding rags to Earl’s gunshot wound, sterilizing our hands as thoroughly as we can with towelettes, since we still don’t have permission to use a bathroom, and then medicating those who need it.
The diabetic can administer her own—she’s as practiced as I am—but Slade wants me to watch her. Supervise, like I’m more trustworthy than the woman in an oversized dress, silk scarf, and whose name is Cheryl.
He demands I take notes, write down everyone’s name, and the dosage they were given. What kind of medication: pills or injection. How often the asthmatic sucks on their inhaler. He leaves Calder for last, insisting I don’t treat the coward until we’re done with everyone else.
The scent of pizza wafts in the air, making my stomach rumble. Though, with the nerves rolling through my veins, I’m likely to puke if I try to swallow a single, cheesy bite.
“It’s nearly eleven now…”
Parker stops under the massive clock and mumbles. But I hear him. I pay keen attention to everything he says and does. Because I married a cop, and when this is over, the entirety of the Copeland City PD will annoy me with their questions. They’ll want to know what clothes he was wearing. What jewelry. Possible tattoos. What shoes. They’ll want a report on how Earl is coping as each hour ticks on, and why Rodney Calder won’t stop crying. They’ll ask about the boy, asleep on his mother’s lap, and the woman Barbara, who has designated herself the group’s mother. Feeding people. Stroking brows. Crooning affirmations that we’ll be okay.
However, she does none of those for Calder.
When I remain silent, Slade turns to me, red-eyed from tears and stress, and repeats himself. “Nearly eleven. So Suzie’s probably halfway through surgery by now, right?”
It’s my turn to infuse. Finally. Everyone else is taken care of, and it’s Aubree’s shift to pack the sleeping security guard’s wound, so I slide the tourniquet along my arm, despite the way Slade frowns, and carefully get to work unpacking my factor supplies. Bottles. Needles. Tape.
“Yes,” I rasp somewhat sleepily. I mean, I’m tired, but I allow my words to slur more than needed, if only to put Parker at ease. “She’s probably halfway through now.”
“And it’s going well,” Aubree inserts.To draw his attention to her?“Being this far in,” she reasons, “if something bad was happening with the extraction, we’d have heard about it by now.”
“Like…” He swallows. “Like, if something went wrong?”
“Right.” Carefully, she reaches forward with her free hand and presses the pads of her fingers to Earl’s throat.
We already know he’s dying. His pulse is slowing, and Slade isn’t inclined to let the man out for help, so we just watch. And wait. We hope he can hold on long enough, but we don’t bet on it.
“If Suzanne was bleeding too much,” Aubs chatters, “or if the growth was impossible to remove. Or if there were complications or whatever. We’d already know about it. So that tells me things are going well.”
I insert the double-sided needle through the stopper of my factor bottle, then I work the other end through the top of the diluent. I’ve done this countless times in my life, so I complete each step on autopilot, flipping the bottles so the clear liquid drips into the powder.
“I think the doctors are doing the very best they can right now.” I don’t look up. Instead, I tear open an alcohol wipe and clean the inside of my elbow in preparation to insert my butterfly needle. But a flicker of light to my left makes me frown. Then comes another.
Scowling, I glance that way, past the tellers’ counter and toward what I suppose is a hallway that might lead to the bathrooms.
Despite my exhaustion, my body is hyperaware of the world around me. The unforgiving tile that makes my backside numb. The cold alcohol on my skin, and the prickle that comes after as it dries. I feel Aubree’s warmth beside mine, and her knee touching my thigh. I feel the corner of the Care Bear box, wedged under the desk behind me.
And I feel Slade’s stare, burning into the side of my face.
So I look away from the flicker of light I thought I saw and meet a desperate father’s eyes instead.
“If something had gone wrong, we’d know about it by now. So I think, in our case, no news is good news.”
“Um… Mr. Slade?” Aubree works her way onto her knees, so I sweep my bottles aside before they’re knocked over. “We have a problem over here.”
“What?” He tightens his hold on the gun and stalks closer to stand over us. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s dying.” She leans over Earl and presses harder to pack his wound. But the rags are soaked in blood. As are her hands. His uniform. Even the floor beneath his body. “He can’t wait till morning.” She lowers her face so her ear rests just an inch from the old man’s lips. “He doesn’t have that long left.”
“I can’t let him out.” Shaking his head, our captor turns on his heels so the other hostages squirm to stay out of his view. Impossible, considering the wide-open room, but they try to minimize their bodies. Squeeze together and duck their heads so they don’t make eye contact. “No.”
“But he won’t make it!” Aubree protests. “He doesn’t have until morning.”
“I can’t let him go!” he spins back in a rage. “You’re too small to carry him out, she’s sick,” he points at me. “And you’re both liars, since you said the medicine was for you!”
“But, Par—”
