With some relief, I recognized Jake, crouched by the lantern, watching as a new casualty was set down at one end of the row. He questioned the bearers, then bent his head to tap a note into a small tablet.

The ER doors closed behind us just as the storm hurled a particularly convulsive burst against the walls. All work paused. The wind shriek crescendoed. The very air seemed to vibrate. My ears popped. The whole building shook as if in an earthquake, but then stood firm and settled. Everyone heaved in a strangled breath and went back to what they’d been doing. The next shuddering assault roused less concern. The stadium was proving its worth.

Our medic directed Julian’s carriers to set him down on a sturdy crate, his back against a wall. His head lolled. She grabbed a basin and rags and went to work swabbing him down. Daniel dropped to his knees, holding Julian upright.

“Most of the blood isn’t his. Been there a while.” She scissored off Julian’s stained tee. “Surface gun wounds. A graze on the right shoulder. One over there.” She pointed out a dark tear across his ribs. “He’s been shot at, but mostly missed. Nothing needs stitching.”

“How long ago, you think?” Daniel asked.

“Hours. Dried before the rain, or more would’ve washed off.”

“So he’s not in danger?” Daniel eased back on his heels, his whole body going slack.

“Shock, exhaustion, dehydration, trauma. They take a toll. He’ll come around when he’s ready.” She flicked a glance at Daniel. “He’s your . . . ?”

“Brother.”

“Good. Then you can take it from here.” She handed over the basin and swabs, slapped a spritzer of antiseptic and some bandages on the crate, then passed me a half-full mug. “Try to get some liquid into him. Infrastructure’s a bit thin yet. We’re crisis-low on drinking water, so don’t waste it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

Daniel seemed to notice me for the first time. He smiled wanly.

“Keep those cuts clean.” The medic tipped Daniel’s chin up with a gloved knuckle. “Yours, too, by the way. Check back when things calm down if there’s any sign of infection.”

And then she was up and moving on to more serious cases.

“Thanks for taking time with him,” Daniel called after her.

I slipped a towel off a nearby stack and eased in to drape it across his wet shoulders.

Daniel shrugged it off. “I’m okay.”

I wanted to pat him, stroke him, towel the sea from his hair, anything to lay hands on him in relief for having him back in one piece. Instead, I asked, “Has he said anything at all?”

Gently probing Julian’s rib wound, Daniel shook his head.

“What do you think’s happened? Maybe he chickened out, or . . . could she have left without him?”

“She wouldn’t. Ever.”

“Then . . . what?”

“Only he can say.”