A Local Habitation
Page 74

“Connor?”
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” He laughed unsteadily as I pushed myself off of him. The color was high in his cheeks. “I forgot how exciting hanging out with you can get.”
“Yeah, well. Quentin? You okay over there?”
He didn’t answer.
I turned to face him, and froze. “Oh, oak and ash.”
He was sitting with his back against the soda machine, left hand clamped high on his right arm. Blood ran between his fingers, coming way too fast. His face had gone whey-white, bleached by shock. “Not really,” he mumbled.
“Oh, crap,” whispered Connor.
I scrambled over to Quentin, reaching for his arm. “Let me see.”
“See what?” he asked, eyes wide and glossy.
“Your arm. Move your hand and let me see.” Gunshot wounds require medical attention, no matter how minor they seem. The shock waves a bullet sends through the body are nothing to screw around with.
“Oh.” Still dazed, Quentin let go. I grabbed his arm just above where he’d been holding, squeezing hard. Blood loss was my first concern. If he lost too much, we’d lose him, no matter how bad the wound was.
“Toby—”
“I know, Connor. Quentin? This may hurt a bit, okay?”
He frowned and closed his eyes, saying, “It already does. Never been shot before. Don’t like it.”
“You’re being very brave. Now hang on.” Keeping the pressure on his arm firm, I pulled the gauze from his forehead and used it to start wiping away the blood. The bullet had passed straight through, which was good. It appeared to have broken his arm in the process, which wasn’t.
“Hurts . . .” he mumbled. His head was starting to loll forward, and the blood wasn’t slowing down.
“Hey. Stay awake, you. Stay awake, and stay with me.”
“Don’t want to,” he said, in a reflective tone. “Tired now.”
“I know you don’t want to. I don’t care. I’m ordering you to stay awake!”
“Are you pulling rank on me?” he asked, sounding oddly amused.
“If that’s what it takes, yes.” I leaned harder, putting more pressure on his arm. “Connor, get over here. I can’t hold this tight enough.”
Connor was almost as pale as Quentin by that point, but he nodded, scooting over to slide his hands under mine. The blood slowed when he clamped down, and I helped him slide Quentin over until he was flat on the floor.
“Connor, get his arm up above his heart.”
“Got it,” he said, keeping his hands tight on Quentin’s arm as he lifted.
“Okay, good. Quentin? Come on, kiddo,” I touched his cheek. “Don’t you leave me.”
“’M not going anywhere,” Quentin whispered.
“Liar.” I didn’t want to leave the boys alone; not with Quentin injured and Connor preoccupied with keeping the blood inside his body. Looking up, I shouted, “April! Come to the cafeteria right now!”
I wasn’t sure she’d come; she could have been too sick with grief to listen. Then the air crackled and she was there, confusion fading into wide-eyed shock as she saw us. It was the first time I’d seen her speechless.
There wasn’t time to enjoy it. “April, get us something we can tie around Quentin’s arm. Then get Gordan. Tell her it’s an emergency. You got that?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts! Go!”
She disappeared.
“Toby . . .” Connor sounded worried. I turned back to Quentin, and winced.
He’d grown paler, and the blood between Connor’s fingers was getting darker. Both of us were soaked to the elbows. How much more did Quentin have to lose?
“Hey.” I put my hand on Quentin’s shoulder, squeezing. “No sleeping, you. Open your eyes. Come on, Quentin. Open your eyes. Please. Please? Please . . .”
April reappeared, holding a strip of white cotton. “Will this work?” she asked, sounding honestly worried.
Things were starting to get through to her.
“Yes.” I grabbed the fabric, edging Connor’s hands aside as I tied it around Quentin’s upper arm. The cotton was red by the time I had it in place, but the bleeding had stopped.
“Quentin, wake up.” I shook his shoulder. He made a small, grumpy noise, and I did it again. “Wake up.”
“No,” he said, opening his eyes.
“Tough,” I said, managing not to start crying in relief. He was alive. He might not stay that way, but he was alive.
The cafeteria door slammed open, and Gordan came running into the room, first aid kit in her hand. “Holy crap!” she exclaimed, skidding to a stop. “What the hell happened in here?”
Now I did start to cry, slumping against Connor. Quentin stared at me, and then he started crying, too. It was just too much. We’d lost Jan, and I had no idea how badly Quentin was hurt, and . . .
Everyone has a breaking point. I was starting to wonder how close I was to mine.
TWENTY-FOUR
IT TOOK GORDAN TEN MINUTES to splint Quentin’s arm and get a pressure bandage in place. I helped as much as I could, holding his head when she had him stretched out on the floor, fetching and carrying things from her first aid kit. I’ve never been interested in emergency medicine, but I was starting to think I needed to learn. The people around me get shot too often.
I couldn’t keep the image of Ross out of my head. Just like Quentin, he was shot when he was with me; unlike Quentin, he took the bullet in the head. All that saved Quentin from the same fate was the fact that my paranoia wouldn’t allow me to ignore a glint of motion in a supposedly empty room. If I’d been paying less attention—if I’d been just a little bit more self-absorbed—I’d have lost him.
Oak and ash. That was too damn close.
April watched for a long time before she asked timidly, “Is he leaving the network?”
“What? No! No.” I glared. I couldn’t help myself. “He’s going to be fine.”
“I am glad,” she said, voice grave. “Do you require further assistance?”
I looked at Quentin’s silent, tear-streaked face—when did he get that pale? How could he be so pale and still be breathing?—and said, “Can you go get Elliot for us, please? We’re going to need help moving him.”