Page 115 of What We Break
She's standing by the guardrail, looking down at her hands. They're covered in blood—drying now, dark and tacky. It's in the creases of her palms, under her fingernails, up to her wrists. Her flannel is ruined, soaked through in patches that are turning rust-brown as they dry. It's not her blood, I know that, but it fucking kills me to look at it.
She looks calm.
I go to the truck. Grab the pack of wet wipes from the center console and my spare jacket from behind the seat—the old canvas work jacket I keep for cold installs.
When I walk back to her, she's still staring at her hands.
"Here." I hold out the wipes.
She looks up. Takes them. "Thanks."
She pulls one out and starts working on her hands. Methodical, patient. The blood isn't coming off easy—it's had time to dry, to settle into the cracks of her skin. She scrubs at her knuckles, between her fingers, under her nails.
The mountain air is cold. Not see your breath cold, it is summer, but her flannel is wet with blood, which means it's not holding any heat. She's got to be freezing.
She hasn't said a word about it.
I step closer and drape the jacket over her shoulders.
Laine goes still. Looks up at me.
"You're cold," I say. I want her warm, yeah, but I want her in something that's mine. For just a little while, I can pretend that she?—
I can't let myself go down that mindfuck of a road.
I'll never find my way back.
"I'm fine," she says, her bottom lip quivering.
"You're shivering."
She looks down at herself, like she hadn't noticed. Then she pulls the jacket tighter around her, arms sliding into the sleeves. It's way too big on her, the cuffs hanging past her fingers, the shoulders drooping.
I love the way she looks in my clothes.
You fucking piece of shit.
"Thanks," she says. She goes back to cleaning her hands.
We stand there for a minute. The ambulance lights flash red and blue against the trees. I can hear Reid's voice somewhere behind us, reassuring the mother.
"Head wounds are tricky," Laine says quietly. She's watching the ambulance, watching them load Emma in. "She was responsive, which is good. Pupils were equal, that's good too. But with kids, you never know. The damage might not show up for hours."
I don't say anything. I don't know what to say. She knows more about this than I ever will.
I'm not a praying man. God gave up on me a long time ago. But I sure as fuck hope he exists and he's watching out for that little girl.
She balls up the used wipe, pulls out another one. Keeps scrubbing.
"Did you ever see him work like this?" she asks. "Reid. When you were overseas."
Have I ever seen Reid like this? Yes. And no. "Once. Our medic went down. Reid's unit got called in to help."
"Was he good?"
I watch the ambulance, but I'm not really seeing it. I'm seeing a dusty road outside Kandahar, Reid kneeling in the dirt with blood up to his elbows, while I stood over him with a rifle.
"He was solid," I say. "Steady hands. Kept his cool." I pause. "But he's better now. More confident. Back then, he was still..."
