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Wharton stands back, watching us with what looks like a mixture of distaste and terror. Possibly he’s mourning the ruination of his desk.
The doctor comes back into the room, his cigarette gone. He’s got on what looks like a plastic poncho and gloves. His hair has been pulled back with a bandana.
Sam moans. “What—what is he going to do?”
“I am going to need an assistant for this,” the doctor says, looking at me. “You okay with blood?”
I nod.
“You’re lucky. My last job wasn’t too far from here. Sometimes I can get pretty backed up.”
“I bet,” I say. I wish he would stop talking.
He nods. “So… I need the money. It’s going to be five hundred up front, like my answering service said. Maybe more, depending on how things go, but I’ll need to have that now.”
I look over at Wharton, and he fusses around with one of the drawers in his desk. He must be used to paying other people in cash, because he unlocks some section inside a lower part and counts out a wad of bills.
“Here’s a grand,” the dean says, his hand shaking as he holds out the cash. “Let’s make sure things go well. No complications, do you understand?”
“Money soaks up germs. It’s dirty stuff. You take it, kid,” Dr. Doctor says. “Put it in my bag. And take out the bottle of iodine. Then, before you do anything else, I want you to go wash your hands.”
“My gloves?” I ask.
“Your hands,” he tells me. “You’re going to wear a pair of plastic gloves. Those are ruined.”
In the bathroom I scrub furiously. My hands. My arms. He’s right about my leather gloves. They are so sodden with blood that my hands were stained red underneath. I splash water onto my face for good measure. Bare to the waist, I feel like I should try to cover up somehow, but there’s nothing to cover up with. My T-shirt is a disgusting mess. My coat is still on the floor of the other room.
I return to the dean’s office to find the doctor has his bag open. It’s a mess of bottles, cloths, and clamps. He’s taking out sharp, scary metal instruments and laying them out on a side table he’s dragged over. I put on a pair of thin plastic gloves and get out the iodine.
“Cassel,” Sam says faintly. “I’m going to be okay, right?”
I nod. “I swear.”
“Tell Daneca I’m sorry.” Tears are welling up in the corners of his eyes. “Tell my mom—”
“Shut up, Sam,” I say fiercely. “I said you were going to be fine.”
The doctor grunts. “Get me one of the swabs, soak it in the iodine, and wipe off the bullet hole.”
“But—,” I say, not sure how to proceed.
“Cut off his pants.” He sounds exasperated, and I can see that he’s taking out a brown vial and a large needle.
I try to keep my hand steady as I take out the scissors from the kit and slice open Sam’s cargo pants. The material rips wide, to his thigh, and I see the actual wound, just above his knee, small and welling with blood.
When my fingers touch his skin, brushing it with brown medicine, he twitches.
“It’s fine, Sam,” I say.
Across the room Wharton sits down heavily in a chair and puts his head in his hands.
The doctor walks over to Sam, holding up a syringe. He taps it, like he’s trying to get the air out. “This is morphine. It should help with the pain.”
Sam’s eyes go wide.
“You’re going to need to be sedated for this,” the doctor says.
Sam swallows and, visibly steeling himself, nods.
