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He’s covered in blood.
He’s hurt.
I can’t bear to look at him, but I can’t look away.
My heart pounds harder, and black fog closes in around my vision. I’m standing here, fighting for breath, clenching my stomach, existing in agony, when Callisto’s voice tears through the drumming in my ears.
“I need you to fix him. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important,” Callisto says, his eyes focused on a man hunched over beside him. Until now, I never noticed anyone else in the room.
“You’re bleeding.” My voice cracks.
I’m not worried about the other man. All I can see is Callisto’s blood-soaked shirt.
“It’s not mine,” he says, his eyes dark and cold. “I need you to focus onhim.”
The other man is peering up at me through bloodshot eyes. The blood has drained from his face, and his breathing is rapidly slowing. He’s going into shock.
I recognize him from the fundraiser. He was with Carlos.
Breathe, Makenna. Think.Now that I know Callisto is okay, I can focus.
Lay him down.Raise his legs.I mentally tick through a checklist.
“I need a blanket. A coat. Anything to warm him.”
“In there,” Carlos’s voice booms from somewhere behind me.
Callisto hurries across the room. He opens a cabinet door and grabs a thick wool jacket while I look for the source of the blood. I don’t ask questions. I just do what he needs me to do.
We lay the man on the floor behind Carlos’s desk so that I can use the lamp there as an additional source of light. His shirt is soaked in blood on one side, below his left shoulder.
“What’s your name?” I ask as I carefully remove his shirt sleeve with a pair of scissors. I need to find where that blood is coming from.
He grits his teeth. “Franco.”
Franco. Right. I remember that now.
I toss the cut off sleeve to the side. Blood pours from a wound below his shoulder, inches from his heart. Beads of sweat pool at his hairline, shimmering across his forehead. His breath grows shallow.
I lift his arm, looking for any other wounds. Blood seeps between my fingers. “What happened to him?”
Callisto kneels next to me. “He was shot.”
For a split second, I freeze. Blink. Take a breath and fill my lungs with air. Not because of the bullet wound. I recognized it the moment I saw it. It’s the knowledge of the danger Callisto was obviously in, of the blood on his shirt, of the possibility that one day I may be looking at him, lying on the ground with this very same wound.
I level my nerves and inspect Franco’s shoulder wound while applying pressure in his armpit.
“I’m going to need you to hold still, Franco. This won’t take long.” I keep my voice calm, steady, confident. In all my time in urgent care, I’ve never had to remove a bullet, and I’m praying to God I don’t have to now. “I need vodka.”
“I’ll get it,” Carlos says without taking his eyes off Franco. His face is cold, expressionless, but his breathing is rapid and the muscles in his jaw tense.
Callisto stares down at Franco, bowing his head, as if in prayer. His breathing is uneven. He rakes bloody fingers through his hair. His amber eyes hold a battle of emotions between rage and pain.This man means something to him—to both of them.
My heart pounds in my chest. “He’s going to be okay.”He has to be.I can’t let them lose another person they care about.
The door flies open, and Carlos returns with the vodka for sterilization. He has the good sense to close and lock it behind him, then hands me the bottle.
After some intense concentration and a little time, I get the bleeding under control. There are no signs of internal bleeding or blood in his lungs. The bullet went all the way through his shoulder blade, which wasn’t great for the blood flow but relieved me of having to locate and extract it. Thank God.
