Page 166 of Scatter the Bones

“Rock, can you hand me that white can Rooster brought?”

There’s a rustle. Clink of metal.

“This might sting,” Margot warns. “But not as bad as before. Then it should help numb the area while I close the wound.”

“Okay.” Not like I’ve got a choice.

She leans over, spraying a fine mist over my upper thigh. Cold. Sharp. Then a low, spreading numbness. Not painless, but less fire.

Snap. Another pair of gloves. The sharp chemical scent of disinfectant stings my nose.

“Gauze,” she says, and someone—Rooster, I think—places it in her hand without a word.

Another sting of antiseptic, milder this time. Then pressure. Damp warmth. My leg twitches. I grind my teeth.

“You okay?” she asks without looking up.

“Just ducky.” My voice scrapes out of my throat like gravel.

She picks up something thin and silver. My vision tunnels on it.

Needle. Thread. Probably what she uses to stitch dead faces into their final, peaceful expressions.

“This will pull,” she warns. “I’m sorry.”

The needle bites through my skin. I flinch hard, fingers curling into fists.

Rooster squeezes my shoulder. “Try to stay still.”

I grunt a noise of agreement.

Each tug of the needle pulls. A dull, dragging sort of flame.

Her breath ghosts over my skin as she leans in, focused, determined. The corners of her mouth pulled down, brows drawn tight.

“You got this,” Murphy says, squeezing my other shoulder.

My body’s coiled tight, bracing for the moment whatever Margot sprayed wears off and hell kicks in.

“Breathe,” she whispers, her voice a soft tether pulling me back. “You’re doing great. Almost done.”

I drag in a breath that doesn’t quite reach my lungs.

Another couple minutes go by in a haze. Then she steps back, staring at her work. “Done. Let me put an antibiotic ointment on it, then cover it with some gauze.”

She moves to the counter. I track her for a second, then let my head thud against the table.

“Feel better?” Rooster asks.

“My head stopped spinning, so yeah.”

“Good.”

Margot returns, dressing the wound with steady, practiced hands. When she’s done, she takes a step back, still staring like she doesn’t trust the bandage to behave.

“You’re staying here,” she says firmly. “I’ll check it and change the dressing tomorrow.” No room for arguing with my girl.

I groan and push up on my elbows. “Not sure how I feel about going up all those stairs.”

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