Page 47 of What We Brave
"Week ago. Maybe eight days."
"And you've been walking on it?"
He snorts and shakes his head. "Gotta walk, don't I?"
Laine makes a small sound that might be frustration or might be resignation. She reaches for the antiseptic, and I watch her irrigate the wound, watch the water run cloudy with?—
The world tilts.
I grab the edge of the supply table, blinking hard. My mouth's gone dry and there's a cold sweat prickling along my spine, which is fucking ridiculous.
"Are you okay?" she asks.
"I've seen worse," I mumble. "I've caused worse. I once held a guy's intestines inside his body while we waited for medevac, and I didn't even flinch."
But that was different. That was bullets flying and adrenaline flooding my system and the absolute certainty that if I didn't keep it together, people would die.
This is just... an old man with a bad foot. In a camp. In Oregon. Where nothing's trying to kill me.
My body doesn't seem to understand the difference.
"Blake." Laine's voice cuts through the fog. "Sit down."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're gray. Sit."
I sit. Right there on the cold ground, because my legs have apparently decided they're done supporting my weight. Wiley's watching me with something between worry and concern.
"Son, you don't look so good."
"Thanks," I manage. "You're real fucking observant." He grins and shakes his head. I'm thrilled he finds this shit so funny.
Laine's still working on his foot, hands steady even as she glances over at me. "Put your head between your knees. Breathe slow."
I want to argue. I want to tell her I don't need to be babied, that I'm fine, that this is embarrassing as fuck and I'd really appreciate it if we could all just pretend it's not happening. But my body has other plans, so I drop my head and focus on not throwing up or passing out.
"This happen often?" Laine asks. Her tone is conversational, like she's asking about the weather.
"No. Sometimes. Depends."
"On what?"
I lift my head enough to glare at her. "On whether anyone's shooting at me."
Her hands pause for just a second. Then she's back to work, expression unreadable. "Combat's different."
"Yeah, no shit."
Wiley chuckles. "I knew a guy like that. Toughest son of a bitch in our unit. Could drag a wounded man through a mile of jungle without breaking a sweat. But you put him in front of a needle?" He shakes his head. "Out like a light."
"Great," I mutter. "Nice to know I'm a fucking type."
Laine finishes wrapping Wiley's foot, never gagging despite howfucking gross it looks. The woman has a gut of steel, apparently. She gives him instructions—keep it clean, stay off it, get to a clinic tomorrow or risk losing the foot—and helps him hobble over to one of the warming stations near the fire drums.
When she comes back, I'm still sitting on the ground like an asshole.
"You planning to stay down there all night?" She's fighting a smile. I can see it tugging at the corner of her mouth, and even though I fucking hate my body right now, I don't hate that look on her face. I'll take her smile any day, even if it's because I'm a fucking wimp.
