The trick to treating a bullet wound was not to cause more damage removing the shell than it caused going in. But it had to be removed lest it work its way around the tissue, ripping it or even fragmenting itself as they fled.

Ideally, the surgeon would have forceps or tweezers to remove the shell. Herbert had only the knife. That meant he had to get under the bullet and pop it out fast, lest her writhing drive the blade this way and that.

He studied the wound for a moment, then put the tip to the opening. The bullet had entered at a slight left-to-right angle. He would have to go in the same way. He held his breath, steadied the knife, then pushed it in slowly.

Jody screamed into his hand. She struggled hard against Herbert, but he pinned her with his left forearm. There was nothing like pushing around a wheelchair to build the upper body.

Herbert pushed the blade along the bullet. He felt its end, angled the tip of the knife beneath it, and used the Skinner like a lever to ease the shell out. It emerged slowly, then tumbled down her body.

Herbert tucked the knife into his belt and released her. He grabbed the matches.

"I need four or five seconds to seal the wound," he said. "Will you give me that?"

Her lips and eyes pressed shut, she nodded briskly.

Herbert struck a match and used it to set the rest of the matchbook on fire. The matches would be hotter and faster than if he heated the knife and used it to close the wound. And seconds mattered now.

Once again pressing his hand to her mouth, Herbert pressed the heads of the matches to the bloody wound.

Jody tensed and bit his hand. He knew this pain and knew it would grow worse as the moisture in her skin evaporated. As she dug her teeth into him, he fought his own pain and bent toward her ear.

"Did you ever see Kenneth Branagh in Henry V?"

One second. The blood boiled off. Jody's hands shot toward Herbert's wrist.

"Remember what he told his soldiers?"

Two seconds. The flesh began to sear. Jody's teeth sliced through the meat of his palm.

"Henry said that one day they'd point to their scars and tell their kids that they were tough cookies."

Three seconds. The wound sizzled. Jody's strength seemed to evaporate. Her eyes rolled up.

"That's you," Herbert said. "Except you'll probably have plastic surgery."

Four seconds. The edges of the wound knit together under the heat. Jody's hands fell back.

"No one will ever believe you were shot. That you fought with King Bob Herbert on St. Crispin's Day."