“How about crowd control?” I snap, pointing to the teen. “If it’s not too much to ask.”

Darcy watches me another beat, jaw tense, before he stands. “All right!” His voice is commanding enough that I sit straighter. “Back it up!” He raises his hands, then takes two steps backward, gesturing for the others to follow. I wait for static from the bystanders, but the circle widens as everyone copies Darcy’s move. The handful of people who crossed in front of the metal frame retreat to the other side of it.

Darcy looks to me. “Good?” he asks, and gestures to Jane. “Or would you like me to have a go at sewing him up? I’d hate for you to question my commitment.”

I lift my chin, though I feel a little sheepish for having been short with him. “I think we’ll leave that to the professionals, but thank you.”

A siren wails in the distance and I sigh in relief. Thank God. My hand has started to cramp, and I switch my hold, applying pressure with my left hand instead. I roll out my right, then brush at an itch on my forehead.

“That’s blood,” Charles blurts. “On your hand.” He jumps to his feet. “I can’t—”

“Charles?” Darcy says his name like a question and a warning. When I look at Charles more closely, he’s gone paler than before. He takes a wobbly step back.

“Charles?” asks Jane, reaching for him.

“Are you . . .” Before I can finish my question, Charles’s eyes roll back and his body drops.

“Shit!” Darcy lurches forward. He’s too far away. Charles hits the ground, his fall broken by Jane, who grunts as his left thigh catches Charles’s head.

“Charles?” Jane asks. “Hello?” He strains to look down to the form across his lap. At least Charles landed with his face toward Jane’s toes and not his crotch.

“He’s out,” I say.

Jane stays rigid for another moment, then his body relaxes. “Okay.” He feels around to the back of Charles’s head and smooths over his fair hair, his movements as tender and relaxed as Charles was with him that first morning. It’s sweet, really, despite the circumstances.

A pair of EMTs carve their way through the thinning crowd. They stop short at the arrangement of bodies.

“He’s wounded,” Darcy says, pointing to Jane. He shakes his head at Charles. “The other one fainted at the blood.”

One of the EMTs squats beside me. “Can you keep him in this position while we put on a stabilizing collar?” At my nod, he aligns the low gurney beside Jane. His partner stands over Charles, brows low, as though he’s not sure how to go about removing the unconscious impediment.

“How’s the bleeding?” asks the EMT.

“It’s deep,” I warn him, and mouth, “Bone,” not wanting to alarm Jane.