Page 89 of In Too Deep
“Where are the explosives?”
Liam’s voice sounded distant and muffled.Like she was underwater and he was calling to her from the surface.He was kneeling—she could see him moving, blurry at the edges of her vision—next to Noah.Next to the knife still sticking in Noah’s side.Black handle protruding from red flesh.
“I…I don’t know.”Her voice didn’t sound like her own.Someone else was speaking through her mouth.The cave was getting darker—her headlamp still on but everything fading around the edges—and there was definitely not enough oxygen.
“Are you okay?”
Teague.
That was Teague’s voice, far away.Like he was shouting from the rim while she spiraled down into the canyon.
“What is wrong with her?”
“She’s having a panic attack.”Liam’s hands were on her upper arms—warm, steady, grounding.She tried to focus on them, but her vision kept tunneling.“My sister, Libby, used to get them.Stabilize the wound and I’ll help Meg.”
Movement in her peripheral vision.Shapes shifted.Teague moved toward Noah.Toward the knife.
Don’t touch it.
But the words were locked behind her teeth and wouldn’t come.Her chest was too tight, her ribs compressing her lungs like a vice.
“What do I do?”Teague’s voice was uncertain and scared.
“We need to keep the knife from moving.”Liam’s thumbs pressed gently against her shoulders and tried to pull her back from the edge.“See if you can find fabric.We need to pack around the base to immobilize it.”
Her vision cleared.
Not completely.The edges were still gray and fuzzy.But enough.
Teague stripped off his jacket.Then his shirt.The movements seemed jerky and stop-motion.He was tearing the fabric—long ripping sounds that echoed off the limestone and filled the small space until it felt like the cave itself was tearing apart.
“Come on, Meg, breathe with me.”Liam looked at her, then back at Teague.“Good, now roll some of those into thick pads.”
Liam’s face came into focus again and blocked her view of Noah.Of the knife.Of the blood pooling beneath him.
“Meg, I need you to breathe with me.”
She couldn’t.
She was drowning on dry land.And Noah was bleeding—dying—and she was supposed to be helping, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.Her medical training scattered like dust.All those years of school and residency and practice, and when it mattered most, she was useless.
“You can do this.You are strong.Noah needs you.In for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four.”
She did as he said and dragged air in through the tightness.She held it even though her body screamed to expel it.
And again.
The roaring in her ears quieted.Not gone.Never gone.But it receded to a dull hum instead of a scream.She could still feel every heartbeat—too fast, hammering against her ribs—but the world around her was coming back into focus, with sharp edges instead of blurred shapes.
Teague was positioning something—rolled strips of fabric, thick cylinders.He placed them carefully around where the knife entered Noah’s side.His hands shook slightly.
More fabric.
He was packing it around the base and building up both sides.He created a cushion, a donut of material to immobilize the blade, to keep it from shifting, from tearing through more tissue.
That was right.
That was what he was supposed to do.Textbook procedure for an impaled object.
