Chapter 9: Hands

We got Ward out through the front doors in the dark.

Hollis took his shoulders, Emmett took his legs, and Abel ran ahead with the bag.

I walked behind them with my hands up, and every deputy who came near the glow found a reason to stay back.

Emmett's flatbed was idling at the curb with its hazards on.

"Gentle," Ward muttered, as they laid him on the deck. "I'm not a sack of feed."

"You're a very stupid man," said Abel, in tears. "You walked toward the shooting."

"Medic," Ward said again, and closed his eyes.

I put my palm flat on the tire of the nearest cruiser as we pulled out.

The tire went flat with a hiss, and so did the other three.

Nobody followed us.

Back at the yard, we laid Ward on a steel table in the shop under every lamp we owned.

Abel cut his shirt away.

The wound was low on the left side, and it would not stop bleeding.

Ward was awake again, gray and sweating, and he gave orders in a voice that did not sound like his.

"It nicked something," he said. "Abel, I need hemostats. Clamps. I can't see the vessel. I need light."

"We've got light," said Emmett, and pointed at me.

"No," said Hollis.

"It's the only way," Ward said. "Greta. Can you make it small?"

I looked at my hands.

They were shaking, and the blue under my skin had gone ragged.

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