Wade extracts gloves from the bag beside me.

“Put these on,” he orders, taking over and applying pressure to the paper towel mound.

I do as he says, first sanitizing my hands and further assessing her.

The bleeding isn’t slowing enough. She goes ghost-pale, her eyelids fluttering. Her pulse grows weaker with each passing second.

I push the towels away and pour water over her wound. Then, taking a breath, I ease my fingers inside as gently as possible. She cries out, writhing but trying to stay still. I feel along her inner cavity, through skin and muscle, pushing through the damage until I source the main bleed. I pinch the wiry artery between my thumb and forefinger.

“Eyes open,” I snap when I see her slipping.

“Sorry,” she startles. “I’m trying.”

“I know. It’ll be okay,” I say, knowing she must be in incredible pain.

Her lips curl again slightly. “Really? I’ll be okay? Or is that just something people say?” She catches my eyes in hers, her brow creasing like she has experience with deceitful pleasantries. “Please, only the truth.”

“Truth only, huh?”

“Nothing but. That’s our policy,” she huffs out, tears slipping.

“Truth is, he doesn’t know,” Wade blurts in a strange show of familial support.

Christie shifts against Marina’s feet, gently adjusting her. “You’re just a young thing. Pretty, too. You’ll be fine.”

She stares at me, waiting for my answer, as if the other two aren’t there. Or she doesn’t see them. And it’s just us living this nightmare together.

“Fine. You have a nicked artery. I’m holding the bleed… but, truth is, I don’t know if you’ll be okay. Your life will teeter on ifs for the near future. If this is the only bleed. If the ambulance arrives in time. If we get to the hospital. If treatment is quick and successful… if there’s no infection, no adverse effects of medication or anesthesia, no traumatic brain injury. It’s all in the ifs.”

She snickers weakly. “Sounds like every day.”

“No. Worse than every day. We’re in trouble here. How long?” I shout at Wade.

He repeats my question with the phone still perched against his scruffy face. “Five minutes.”

A sigh pushes from me, taking hope with it. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Her hand falls weakly on my upper arm, and through labored breathing, she says, “Tripp. Grady Tripp. It’s okay. Truthfully.”