Page 47 of What is Found

“Cellulitis.”

“English.”

“This.” Using a pinky, he outlined a long, diffusely pink streak that led from the mucky, burgundy eye of the bullet wound into Davila’s left armpit. “Early sign of infection.”

“That’s why I’m hot.”

“And perspiring.” He took a sniff and got a faint odor of decay. “Yeah. The oral antibiotics just aren’t cutting it.”

“Meaning…you cutme?” When John didn’t reply right away, he said, “You got to let it drain, right?”

“Might not be anythingtodrain.” His mind leapfrogged over the various steps: the sterilization, the cutting, stuffing in surgical wick. He didn’t like any of it. “Even I did, I have to leave the wound open and hope the infection gets kinda sucked up along the wick instead of working its way deeper into muscle.”

“I heard a bigbut.”

“Doesn’t work great in the field.”

“So, what do we do?” Davila asked.

“We get cleaned up. Then I drink some coffee and then, when I’m in the right frame of mind, we’ll see.” John dug out his dopp kit from his duffel. “I hate making decisions in the throes of caffeine withdrawal.”

CHAPTER 2

He wason his second cup when Davila said, “You ever have a pickled pig’s foot?”

“What?” He almost choked on his joe. “I’m a good Jewish boy.”

“I take it that’s a no?”

“A definite negatory, good buddy. What broughtthaton?”

“This stuff.” Davila held up a deflated MRE pouch. “Says it’s beef stew with mixed vegetables. Smell reminds me of hunting trips with my brother. Can’t remember the brand name.”

“Dinty’s?”

Davila snapped his fingers. “That’s it. We always stopped off at this little backwoods place to load up on supplies.”

“The kind with a buncha older guys in rockers jawing around a big old pickle barrel?”

“Don’t you know it.” Davila ladled stew into aceramic mug. “And jars of pickled pigs’ feetandpickled eggs. You ever try the eggs?”

“Took a hard pass on those, too. You?”

“It was…educational.”

“As in?”

“As in I never want to chew on an egg that’s been soaking in vinegar for ten years ever again.” Turning to the boy, Davila proffered a steaming mug. “Careful, kid, it’s…” He paused then said,“Daliachi.”

Brows knit, the boy cocked his head like the pup on an old RCA label then brightened. “Goryachiy? Hawwt, Tez?”

“Yeah, hot.” Davila grinned down at the boy. “Didn’t I just say that?”

“Tez?” John said. “Next thing you know you’re going to ruffle his hair and saygood boy.”

“Because heisa good kid. Like you said, he saved my life.” For a few beats, the only sounds were the scrapes of metal spoons, and then Davila said, “Got a question.”

“Shoot.”

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