His white shirt is now a dusty brown, and the part where he was shot is a rusty color. "Okay, let's see what happened here." I pull the shirt, and the stickiness of the blood sticks to the white shirt. "I need to see if it really came out the back." I look at Ethan, who just nods at me. He lifts him by the side, and I see the exit wound. "Well, it went right through." I walk over to the bag Casey brought in that is now laid out on top of the desk in the room. My hands start to shake a bit as I doubt myself.
"Chelsea." Quinn calls my name, and I look at him. He is one of my best friends in the world and my cousin. He also knows me better than most people. "You graduated at the top of your class for a reason." I just nod at him as he turns and walks out of the room. Casey comes to stand in front of the bed.
"What can I do to help?" he asks, stepping forward to watch what I’m doing.
"I need you to be my right-hand person when I need something," I say, looking down at the gunshot wound. I’ve only ever seen one gunshot wound in my whole career. The last time, I was an intern, so all I had to do was watch. I look up at Mayson, seeing his one eye sealed shut and already purple. Even though I washed his face at Ethan’s, it’s still streaked with mud. I look over to see that Ethan is dragging the desk to me now, and Casey has turned and walked out of the room. I lean down and whisper in his ear, "Don’t you fucking die on me, Mayson." I stand now and close my eyes. Looking up, I see my father standing in the doorway. "I’m good."
"Oh, I know you are," he says. "You got that from your mother," he says with tears in his eyes. My uncle Jacob stands beside him with his arms folded over his chest, smirking at me. He usually does that when he knows I’m about to show everyone when I’m boss. It started when I was a kid, and Quinn bet me that I couldn’t ride the mechanical bull as long as him. Well, he was wrong. I rode it longer. Forget that I broke my arm to prove him wrong.
"I got the water," Casey says to me, and I look over to see him carrying a white bin with warm water.
"Let’s get the party started." I say that every single time I get a trauma. I put an IV in him with a bag of saline to keep him hydrated. "I need something to hold up the IV fluid." I look at Quinn, and he nods at me, turning and walking out of the room as Jacob walks in, carrying an ECG machine. My mouth hangs open as I look at both of them.
"So I’m supposed to believe that you having an ECG machine just lying around the barn?" They both share a look. "Like that’s normal." I walk over and hook Mayson up. Placing the gray peg on his finger. The machine starts to monitor his heartbeat. "It’s slow,” I tell them. "But steady."
"At least it’s beating," Ethan says. "Here." He hands me the blue surgical cover, and I look down at my shirt, seeing that his blood is all over me. I slip my hands in and slip on another pair of clean gloves. I turn, and everything else fades away. I block out everyone in the room and the only thing I focus on is Mayson. Quinn comes back in with a stick and a hanger. Tying it to the side of the bed, he hangs up the saline bag.
I clean off the wound as gently as I can and look up to see if he wakes up. When I don’t see his eyes flutter, I continue seeing to the bullet hole. The whole time, questions are going through my head. Who would do this to him? Why would they do this to him? Where did he crawl out from? How long was he kept? From the look at the welts on his wrists, he was held captive for days. When was the last time someone spoke to him? How long would he have been missing before someone asked questions? My head swirls as I make sure the wound is clean before I grab the hook and some thread.
My stomach burns as I think of him alone out there with no one knowing he was missing. My parents text me twice a day, and if I don’t answer them, they have a phone chain they put into effect. How does he not have this? Why doesn’t he have this? Who is this man who has slowly crept into my family?
"How is his pressure?" I ask Ethan, who had this training when he was in the black ops team.
"Normal," he says. "How's the wound?"
"Normal." I smirk at him and bend my head to start stitching him up.
I hang my head down and let the water cascade around me. The tightness in my neck doesn’t go away. I’ve been up for thirty-eight hours straight, give or take. Watching the water swirl down the drain, I’m fixated on that image and trying to forget everything I just saw.
Closing my eyes, all I can see is blood. So much fucking blood I didn’t think he would make it, and all I could do was ignore the way my heart was beating. I had to ignore the fear that was creeping in and focus on keeping him alive. Everyone helped in their own way, but no one could have stitched him up like me. So I refused to even take a break. I refused to drink. I refused everything until the last stitch was sewn, and were there ever fucking stitches.
Seventy stitches just on his legs and twenty for the bullet wound. I close my hands, looking down at them, and then the cramping starts.
I turn off the water and step out of the shower, grabbing the white towel. Wrapping it around myself, I slip on a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. I tie my hair on top of my head, ignoring the tension in the back of my neck that is not going away.
Opening the bathroom door, I’m shocked when I see my mother sitting on the bed. "Mom," I say her name, and she turns to look at me. "What are you doing here?" I ask. I’m suddenly scared he coded, and no one came to get me. She sees my eyes moving from her to the door and back to her.
"Dad called me." She smiles at me. "I brought over something for you to eat." She points at the tray of food she placed on the bedside table. I let out a huge sigh of relief.
"Where is everyone?" I look toward the hallway, knowing that Ethan is probably sitting by his bed.
"Only Ethan is left," she says, and I go and sit next to her. "You need to sleep."
"I need to eat and sleep but," I say, looking toward the door, "he needs to be watched for the next twenty-four hours."
"And Ethan is with him," she reinterates. "So eat and then get at least four hours of sleep."
Grabbing the tray, I bring it on the bed with us. "Is this Grandma’s special soup?"
"Obviously," she says. "We had to talk her and Grandpa down, or they would have charged in here." I laugh, grabbing the spoon, taking a sip of the butternut squash soup that is my favorite.
"It was scary, Mom," I tell her without looking up as I blink away my tears.
She puts her arms around me as I sniffle. "Dad said you were a rock star."
I take a bite of the chicken salad sandwich with fresh cranberries. "He has to say that. He’s my dad." I look over at her. "He also paid a shit ton for my education, so he has to say that. I’m exhausted," I say to her, and I hear footsteps from the hallway and look up to see Ethan. "Is he okay?" I’m already getting out of bed to go to him.
"He’s fine," he says, looking at me. "I was checking on you."
"I’m fine," I say. "I’m not the one fighting to live."
"You kicked ass, Care Bear," he says, smirking.