ONE SEVENTY NINE
Gael shifted with a slow, painful grunt, dragging himself up from the floor like every joint and muscle in his body was rebelling against him. Sweat still poured down his temples, soaking the collar of his shirt, which clung to him in damp patches. He looked like a man on the verge of collapse, every movement sluggish and heavy with exhaustion. For a second, I thought he might topple right back down again. His hands trembled faintly at his sides, grime embedded beneath his nails, and the dark, ugly bruise blooming across his nose gave him a ragged, half-broken appearance that tightened a coil of guilt low in my gut.
Dominic didn’t give him much time to gather himself. He nudged Gael forward with the barrel of his gun, a low, gruff voice cutting through the suffocating tension of the room.
"Get her ready. We move her at nine."
Gael gave a slight nod, his entire demeanor subdued, almost mechanical. He glanced once at me, his bloodshot eyes flickering with something I couldn’t name—fear, maybe. Or understanding. Or maybe just a mutual acknowledgment that the line between us had blurred into something neither of us could untangle.
Tina was still lying in bed, curled slightly on her side, her breathing shallow and uneven. She’d been stable most of the afternoon, enough that I’d allowed myself the smallest, most fragile sliver of hope. But now, looking at her pale, sweaty face and the way her body trembled faintly under the thin bedsheet, that hope withered into a tight, cold knot of fear in my stomach. She was slipping again. I could see it in the blue tinge creeping around her lips, in the glassy, unfocused flutter of her eyelids.
I stood at the edge of the bed, clenching and unclenching my hands uselessly, the skin of my palms burning from the friction. I hated feeling this helpless. I hated watching her deteriorate by the second and not being able to do anything except wait and pray and hope Gael knew what he was doing.
Gael moved cautiously toward her, his steps dragging slightly. The kit we had hastily assembled—the one Isabella had helped throw together from the emergency supplies in the house—was sitting on the small bedside table, neatly arranged with rolls of gauze, antiseptic wipes, medical tape, a pair of scissors, and a few precious antibiotics we were rationing like gold.
He reached out a hand to the kit but paused, glancing over his shoulder at Dominic.
"We need to clean your wound after hers," Gael said, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. "You’ve been walking around with it all day...it’ll get infected if we leave it."
Dominic, who had been standing against the far wall with his arms folded across his chest and a permanent scowl etched into his face, grunted. "Do her first," he muttered. "She’s priority."
Gael didn’t argue. His shoulders sagged slightly, as if even the effort of speaking had cost him something, and he turned back to Tina.
With careful, deliberate movements, he plucked the sheet off of her body after putting on clean gloves, revealing the wound we had all become so familiar with over the last endless stretch of hours. It was an angry, swollen mess, the skin around it dark and inflamed. The bandages he had applied earlier were stained through with a fresh, ugly splotch of blood and some pus. My heart lurched painfully at the sight.
Gael’s hands, despite their tremors, were gentle as he peeled the soiled bandages away, exposing the raw, gaping stab wound just beneath her ribs. He worked in slow, methodical motions, as if moving any faster might tear her apart. I watched every agonizing second of it, feeling the bile rise thick and bitter in my throat.
First, he picked up a pair of sterile tweezers and carefully dabbed the area around the wound with antiseptic wipes, wincing when Tina whimpered softly in her sleep.
"Sorry," he whispered, more to himself than to any of us.
He switched to a fresh wipe, gently cleaning away the crusted blood, the sticky sheen of sweat, and the early signs of infection trying to root itself in the tender flesh. His face twisted into a grimace as he inspected the wound more closely, his mouth tightening into a thin, unhappy line. Without looking up, he reached blindly for a small syringe filled with a saline solution and flushed the wound with it, the liquid hissing softly against her skin.
Tina shuddered involuntarily, her whole body convulsing once before settling back into shallow, rasping breaths.
I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, forcing myself to stay still, to stay silent.
Gael grabbed a new set of gauze, soaked it lightly in antiseptic, and dabbed at the area again with infinite care, cleaning it of any lingering debris. He was slow, almost painfully so, but there was something almost reverent about the way he worked, like he was trying to erase the damage with tenderness alone.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement—and turned to see Dominic shifting uneasily where he stood. His face was a mask of stone, cold and detached as always...but I saw it. Just for a second. The faintest wince pulling at the corners of his mouth. The way his hand flexed at his side, clenching and unclenching just like mine.
I couldn’t tell if he hated this process or his wound was starting to sting. It gutted him in ways he wouldn’t allow himself to say out loud, not even to me.
I sucked in a shaky breath and turned my attention back to Gael.
He was securing a new, fresh piece of gauze over the cleaned wound now, taping it down with slow, steady fingers. His hands were still trembling, but he fought through it, keeping his touch as light and painless as he could manage.
When he was done, he sat back on his heels, his chest heaving slightly from the exertion. Sweat dripped from the end of his nose, soaking into the collar of his grimy shirt, and his entire body sagged with exhaustion and defeat.
For a long moment, none of us moved.
The only sound in the room was Tina’s ragged breathing and the faint, rattling hum of the old ceiling fan turning slowly overhead.
Then Gael, without being told, plucked off his gloves, reached back into the kit, and pulled out another set of supplies.
He turned slightly, his eyes flickering up to Dominic.
"Your turn," he rasped, his voice raw and scratchy.
Dominic stiffened, straightening from the wall, his eyes narrowing slightly. But after a moment, he nodded once, terse and reluctant.
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