Page 24 of Break For Me
The next dayhe tries to check the perimeter.
He makes it two hundred yards before the blood loss wins. Garrett finds him sitting against a pine tree, grey-faced and panting. His palm is a mess again.
I have to re-close two of the sutures that evening. He sits on the edge of the cot and stares at the plank wall while I work.
He doesn’t make a sound. His jaw is locked so hard the masseter muscle bunches under the skin.
He is managing the pain through pure, brutal suppression. He refuses to let his body dictate terms to him.
I should admire the discipline. Instead, it makes me want to put my fist through the wall.
"You are undoing my work," I say. The words come out louder than I planned. My professional distance fractures. Something raw pushes through the gap.
"Every time you tear these sutures, you introduce contamination. If that wound gets infected in this shack, I will have to cut away necrotic muscle. That means permanent impairment. Do you understand? I am trying to save your hand, and you are fighting me harder than you fought the men in my hallway."
He looks at me. Something shifts in his hard face. The contempt is still there, but it reorganizes into a strange, grudging recognition.
"You’re angry," he says. His voice is flat. Observational.
"I’m frustrated by a patient who is actively sabotaging his own recovery."
"No." He leans forward, closing the distance between us. His dark eyes hold mine. "You’re angry. First time I’ve seen it."
I don't respond. I tie the final suture. I cut the thread and begin dressing the wound again.
My hands are steady, but something behind my sternum is vibrating. It’s a heat. A pressure. It feels like a locked door being forced open from the inside.
I tape the gauze. I stand. I leave the room without another word.
The fever spikeson the fourth night.
I’m checking Killian’s vitals when Garrett appears in the doorway. "The big one’s burning up."
His voice is calm, but the urgency is conveyed through the facts. I cross to the small bedroom.
Rocco is on the cot. The sheet is a tangled mess around his powerful legs. His skin is flushed and slicked with sweat.
I press the back of my hand to his forehead. The heat is alarming. Thirty-nine point five degrees Celsius, at least.
His pulse is rapid and thready. His breathing is shallow. His eyes are open but glassy and completely unfocused.
"How long?" I ask Garrett.
"Found him twenty minutes ago. He was lucid an hour earlier."
I check his bandaged palm. The suture line is intact, but the surrounding tissue is swollen, angry, and red. Cellulitis.
The deep laceration created a perfect pocket for bacteria despite the antibiotics. I need to bring the fever down now. If his core temperature hits forty-one, he seizes.
"I need cold water. Every towel in the house. And the basin."
Garrett moves. I pull the sheet off Rocco’s body.
He’s wearing the same bloodstained jeans he arrived in. We couldn't get them off over his heavy boots when he was unconscious. He refused to let me near them later.
I unlace the boots and pull them off. His feet are enormous. Callused. Thick ankles.
I unbutton the jeans. I unzip them. I hook my fingers into the waistband and pull.
