Page 28 of Wrath

"Good?" I murmur.

He nods. "Do it."

With two fingers gripping the middle knuckle of Ezra's finger, I situate the pliers how they need to be on one of the hooks, bending upward a little and then releasing. I clip the thing as clean as I can, and Ezra lets out a loud breath. I feel his left leg tremble as I repeat on the hook’s other prong.

"Almost done," I whisper.

I clip the hook. Brennan meets my eyes to say he’s ready, and I hold Ezra’s hand in place as tight as I can.

Brennan starts to pull the hook out. Ezra’s hand shakes as he does it, which forces Bren to re-grip the hook when it’s halfway out and blood is dripping all down Ezra’s hand. Ezra’s body jerks—and then it’s out.

He draws the hand up to his chest and makes this soft noise in his throat that makes my stomach go all topsy turvy.

"Got a Band-Aid?"he asks quietly.

Brennan gives a low laugh. The finger is dripping way too fast for just a Band-Aid.

"Can I see?" I ask him.

Ezra leans back, his shoulders drawn up like he doesn't want me too close.

"It's okay." I stand up on knees that wobble. "Let's go home. I'm driving."

His eyes open. "You don’t have to. I can just—"

"Naw, man!" Marcel is back in the game. He’s got a hand held up to block Ezra’s hand from his view. "Go home,boy. Let your mama—Miller’smama—patch that shit up. That or get your ass to the hospital, have it sewed shut."

"What's going on?" My dad arrives on the scene looking confused. "Oh no," he says, frowning deeply.

"It was my fault." Brennan sighs. "I gave him that long pole I use on the pier."

Ezra stands up, holding his arm to his chest as blood drips onto the dock. "It's okay." He gives Bren a weak smile. It's small and strained, and I'm surprised he's putting in the effort. "Screwed up getting bait on the hook. Hand was sweaty, just slipped."

"Go with Josh,” my dad says in a reassuring, fatherly tone. “He’ll get you some antibiotic cream and gauze and all that. Go on, Josh." My dad waves at the lawn.

I nod, and start walking. I’m surprised when Ezra follows.

“It’s okay,” he says, when we’re a little ways away from everybody. The words are thick, and his eyes look heavy-lidded. Gotta figure he’s still half-drunk off all that bourbon.

“Is it?”

He nods.

I’m painfully aware of everything about him as we walk across the lawn. How his strides are slightly longer than mine. The way his hat presses that surfer flop of hair into his eyes as he walks with his shoulders slightly drawn in. He’s still got his arm folded to his chest, the good hand curved around it protectively.

“Can I see?”

After a second, he holds the hand out. I get a good view of the pad of his finger, marred by two deep, vertical gashes. Both of them are still oozing.

"Fuck, man. I think that needs stitches."

He laughs. It’s a low, rough sound that I feel in my stomach. "Like hell it does."

"It could get infected pretty easily. If we poured alcohol on it or something, like to sanitize, that would fuckingkill."

"Nah. Do it." He smiles, crooked, and time trips on its seconds. His sharp-boned face is all bourbon and irreverence.

"You say that because you're drunk."

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