Chapter 14 · Dead Ship, Live Channel

The iodine bottle was the only thing left on the warped shelf. I grabbed it, clamped the flashlight under my chin, and poured it straight into the split in his forearm.

Garrett didn't breathe hard. Didn't cuss, didn't pull back. Sat there with his arm turned up like I was checking a fish for scale.

"Six inches," I said around the plastic casing. "That's an ER cut."

"It's a Tuesday cut."

"It's down to the meat. You need stitches and a shot."

"I need a dry shirt and four hours." He nodded at the floor. "That's more of a mess than I like."

Dark blood pooled in the pine grooves. Not his. The big one with the lead pipe left most of it on his way out the door, right before the tide came up under the pilings. Out the cracked window, black water chewed at the dock and spat nothing back.

"Sit."

He waited three seconds to prove he didn't take orders, then dropped onto the iron cot. The springs shrieked. The mattress sank so far my knees hit the boards.

I ended up between his thighs. No room for a chair in that shack.