Chapter 2 #2
“You’re lucky.” I reach for the suture kit. “If you’d landed differently, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Not that we’re having much of a conversation anyway.”
I thread the curved needle, biting my lip in concentration. The instructions in the book seem simple enough: insert needle, pull through, tie off. Repeat until closed. But the reality of pushing a needle through human skin makes my stomach flip.
“I just have to remember.” I position the needle at the edge of his wound. “The hot doctor was teaching the hot intern, and they were definitely going to sleep together by the end of the episode. But I didn’t really listen to what he was saying.”
He huffs.
“Sorry.” I take a deep breath and push the needle through his skin. He doesn’t even flinch, which either means he’s tougher than I thought or slipping into shock. Neither is reassuring.
“One down.” I pull the thread through with trembling fingers. “Seven or eight to go, I think? The book says to keep them evenly spaced.”
The next stitch goes in easier. By the third, I’ve found a rhythm, though my back aches from bending awkwardly next to him to get the most out of the dim light.
“So,” I say to fill the silence, and distract myself from what I’m doing, “what brings you here? Sightseeing? Door-to-door salesmen still a thing? Or just a fan of tetanus-laced fire escapes?”
“Looked solid.”
“Yeah, about that.” I tie off another stitch. “I might have… sabotaged it. Security measure.”
“Smart.”
“Not smart enough to factor in a ho—people climbing it, apparently.” I finish the last stitch and cut the thread with small scissors from the kit. “There. Not my prettiest work, but it should hold your head together.”
Next comes the band-aid. I spread out my collection, accumulated from various apartments. “Let’s see… we’ve got plain boring ones, dinosaurs, unicorns, or these weird smiley faces.” I hold up a unicorn band-aid, its holographic surface catching the light. “Tough choice, I know.”
Knox’s eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “I don’t—”
“Unicorn it is.” I place it carefully over the center of his sutured wound, where the stitches look most likely to pull. “The mythical healing powers can’t hurt.”
According to the book, concussions need monitoring, rest, and pain management. I flip to the section on pharmaceuticals, squinting at the tiny print.
“Acetaminophen, not ibuprofen,” I read aloud. “Ibuprofen can increase bleeding risk. Okay, so, definitely no Ibuprofen.” I rummage through my pill bottles. “Here we go. And you need water.”
I grab a bottle of Diji Water from my stockpile, unscrewing the cap before returning to Knox, whose eyes have drifted closed again.
“Hey.” I tap his cheek lightly. “No sleeping yet. Medicine first.”
His eyes flutter open, confusion clouding them momentarily before recognition returns.
“Open up.” I press the two pills to his lips. He accepts them, and I hold the water bottle to his mouth. “Small sips.”
Water dribbles down his chin as he swallows, his throat working visibly. I wipe it away with my thumb without thinking, the casual intimacy of the gesture hitting me a second later.
“Let’s get you off the floor.” I stand, assessing the situation.
The leather sofa is only fifteen feet away, but it might as well be fifteen miles given his condition and my exhaustion.
Knox understands the challenge and braces himself against the wall with a grunt of pain.
I hunch under his arm, and together we hobble to the sofa.
He collapses onto the cream-colored leather with a sigh that seems to come from his soul.
“I paid twenty thousand for that couch.” I arrange a pillow under his head. “Try not to bleed on it.”
His lips quirk in what might be a smile.
I eye his right boot caked with street gunk. “This is coming off.”
Knox tenses. “Not necessary.”
“Yeah, and I’m not necessary to your survival either, but here we are.
” I flip to the section on ankle injuries, skimming past fractures and compound breaks with growing unease.
“Book says to assess for deformities, swelling, and tenderness. Can’t do that with your apocalypse-chic footwear still on. ”
He glares but doesn’t stop me when I reach for the laces. The boot’s expensive, that much I can tell. I loosen the laces completely before easing it off, watching his face for pain signals.
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath stubbled skin. That’s all the reaction I get.
“You military types and your pain thresholds.” I peel off his sock. “Normal people say ‘ouch.’”
“Ouch.”
His ankle looks angry-red and swollen, but not grotesquely misshapen. I press gently around the malleolus—thank you, medical textbook jargon—and Knox’s entire body goes rigid.
“That hurt?” I ask.
“What do you think?” His voice drops lower, rougher. “Sorry, I meant—Ouch.”
“Seems like you’re getting better.” I compare his ankles side by side. “I think it’s a sprain, not a break. Book says RICE—rest, ice, compression, elevation.” I grab a pillow from the other end of the couch and tuck it under his foot. “Rest and elevation, check.”
My freezer still works thanks to the building’s solar panels. I retrieve an ice pack wrapped in a kitchen towel and return to find Knox asleep.
I place it on the ground, grab an elastic bandage from the medical kit, and wrap his ankle with more confidence than I feel, weaving it between his toes and around his heel like the book shows. Lastly, I secure the wrap with metal clips before propping the ice pack on it.
Not ideal, but better than nothing.
After ten minutes of observing, I can’t stand the mud on his face anymore.
I grab a clean cloth and dampen it with water, then begin wiping away the grime from his face.
Under the dirt and blood, his skin is surprisingly unmarked—no weathered texture like most survivors who live rough.
His clothes, while worn, are well-maintained.
His hair, though matted with blood, has no splits so must have been cut relatively recently.
And his nails are trimmed, not ragged and filthy.
“You’re cleaner than most apocalypse dwellers.” I wipe a smudge from his jaw, my eyes locking on his lips. “Better fed, too.”
The medical book says to wake concussion patients regularly, which means a long night ahead.
I sink into the armchair across from him, katana propped against the side, and watch the rise and fall of his chest. The pasta water I’d put on earlier is long cold, my dinner plans abandoned.
“What exactly am I supposed to do with him, Telly?” I whisper to his sleeping form. “And I need to get his stuff.”
I hug my knees to my chest, settling in for my watch.
Did I save his life or complicate mine beyond repair?