Chapter 7 · Whoever's Outside Owns Whoever's Inside

"It's not catching." The voice through the door is flat, bored, like this happens every week. "Override panel says fault. Gimme five."

Five minutes. I do the math against the blood soaking through Levi's sleeve and decide five minutes is a long time to bleed on my floor.

"Sit," I tell him.

"I'm not sitting for you."

"You're not sitting for me. You're sitting because your arm's leaking and the only other person in this box who knows how to stop that is me." I shove the gurney tray at his knee. Metal cracks bone. He hisses — good, that's the point, pain makes people listen. "Sit down, Grant."

He sits. Doesn't want to. I see it in the set of his jaw, in the way his hand's still curled like it wants my collar back. But the wound's talking louder than his pride right now, and pride doesn't stop bleeding.

I peel the old wrap off first. Slow. Not gentle — I don't do gentle, gentle's how a cut gets infected because you're scared of a little pain.