Page 11 of The Heart We Guard
It takes a few moments to apply a local anesthetic around the two bullet holes. None of this is going to be as perfect and effective as an operating room, but this is the best I can do.
Then, I clean up the area of surgery, povidone-iodine turning the skin a yellowy orange.
There’s a thick scar across his abdomen. As if someone ripped him open with a knife at some point.
He sighs and closes his eyes. “Tell Ember…I love…her.”
I don’t ask who Ember is to him; I don’t want to know. “I’ll keep you alive so you can tell her yourself.”
“So different.”
I don’t know the context of his words. But I know that he’s likely getting delirious. “What is?”
“Dying.”
“If you die, I failed at my job. And I don’t like to fail, Butcher.”
One eye flickers open. “Call me…Nolan. Seeing you’re…about to…cut into me.”
“Okay, Nolan. This is going to get rough. Pass out if you can. It’ll be easier for both of us.”
And with that, I begin to clean up the first gunshot wound. I feel the absence of my medical team immediately. As the surgery progresses, I even put out my hand, calling for what I need, before realizing I must get it myself.
Sweat dots my brow as I consider the mistakes I could be making without any equipment showing me where the bullets are lodged. I could do more harm than good.
My eyes begin to sting with the burn of no sleep. I stifle a yawn. Then another. I shake my head, and at one point, step outside of the double doors to the backyard to inhale large gulps of the now cooling evening air.
In an attempt to increase blood flow, I let my hands hang by my side as I jump up and down, rebounding to get me the extra hour of wakefulness that I need.
I’m not sure how long it takes. An hour. Maybe two. The night has blurred into one long fever dream. Every now and then, my heart trips when I remember I’ve effectively lost my job.
When I’m comfortable that all I have left is clean up, I use Butcher’s finger to open his phone and do what Smoke said, finding his contact details to message him.
Me:He’ll make it. He’s recovering now.
I place it down as I slowly begin to clean up, but I catch the response on the screen when it arrives.
Smoke:Keep him that way, and I’ll see you get what we agreed.
Butcher sleeps fitfully, and I take up watch, sitting next to the table.
An alarm beeps on my phone every thirty minutes. A reminder to take some vital statistics as best I can.
But somewhere around sunrise, I finally fall asleep.
4
BUTCHER
Headache.
Pain.
Sunlight.
Too hot.
Can’t move.
