I grip her soft wrist—it feels light, like a rose in my palm. Her pulse is weak and thready.

Fuck. The knife impaled her on impact, driven in by the force. What happened comes into focus, not that it makes it any better—it’s still my fault.

“Tell us what you need, son.” The second voice is familiar from my childhood—Wade’s friend, Ed Christie, who always goes by Christie.

My brain resets. Treat the patient.

“Sanitizer or alcohol!” I say frantically.

“This do?” He hands me a flask from his pocket. “Vodka.”

I snatch it and liberally pour it over my hands before pressing tightly against her stomach wound. Her blood feels hot and sticky, slightly steaming in the cold air and matching her strained breath clouds. She gulps under my strength, but I must slow her bleeding.

“Elevate her feet,” I order Christie.

He stumbles over, plops to the pavement, and eases her legs into the lap of his stained jeans with surprising gentleness for a large man.

Finding the tear in her dress, I rip it open to eye the three-inch wound just below and to the side of her navel. Small, but gushing. She might go into hypovolemic shock and die from exsanguination.

Bottom line—she doesn’t have twelve to fourteen minutes.

I try to think. Chimpanzees are the closest to human anatomy—not that I studied exotics much in vet school. But I did study pigs, and they’re a close second. Judging from the bloody knife nearby, it penetrated a solid four inches, likely damaging her large and small intestines, at least. Her internal iliac artery must be punctured, perhaps uterine, too.

If I don’t stop the bleeding, she’ll die.

Right here. She’ll die because of me.

In my frenzied deliberation over how best to help her, her delicate hand weakly grips mine, and the world seems to stop again.

“Don’t look so glum, chum. You’re doing your best.”

For the first time, I see her, and her words, even her smile, feel like another devastating impact. She’s young. Beautiful. Her too-long, natural red hair stands out, but so do her intense features—freckles, full pink lips, and a determined chin. Her sapphire eyes catch mine, holding me prisoner. What the hell? Is she cheering me up?

“What’s your name?” I ask to get her talking.

“That’s Marnie,” Christie answers with a proud twang like this is a quiz he’s hoping to score well on. Idiot. “She works at Sunny’s.”

“Shut up, I’m asking her,” I bark. “Are you aware of what’s happening?”

She sputters softly, “Car accident on my wedding day. Check.”

“Marnie. What’s that short for?”

“Marina.” Her voice is faint like she’s passing into another room.

“Full name?” I demand.

“Marina Ann Strange, age twenty-four. Nope, twenty-five. Today’s my birthday,” she manages between wincing. “I’m lucid.”