Gretchen was crouched next to him, her shoes even bloodier than his. She shifted the deadweight of his arm over her shoulder and Archie surrendered, letting her support his weight. She held his hand by his wrist against her breast. He could see the gun in his hand, the barrel pressed against her dress, but he couldn’t feel his own fingers around the grip. His hands were too numb. Gretchen moved her other arm around his waist. Her blond hair brushed his forearm, and through everything, through all of the pain and the shakiness, he could still feel that—he could feel the gentle thrill of Gretchen’s hair against his flesh. She tightened her hold on his wrist.

“This is going to hurt,” she whispered.

He inhaled sharply as she lifted him to his feet. The pain from the gunshot felt like the crack of a whip. Even his tears stung. His vision blanched. His stomach turned. His legs felt bulky and anesthetized. But when his vision came back into focus, he was upright. The toe of her bloody white pump pressed against the outside curve of his shoe. She loosened her grip on his wrist and he lurched for the wall with his hand, to help stabilize himself. He was sweaty and fighting for breath, his body ringing with pain. They were standing, bodies still entangled. Gretchen’s face was flushed from the effort of lifting him. She smelled like blood, like a slaughterhouse, or maybe, Archie thought, he was the one who smelled like that. Her expression was one of gentle patience, the devoted caretaker.

Archie’s arm was still slung over her shoulder, his gun hand resting against her breast. He cleared his throat and lifted his chin, honing in on the open door that was now so close. He could feel a pulse where Gretchen held his wrist, but he couldn’t tell if it was his heartbeat or hers.

As he focused on the pulse, he began to make out sounds coming from behind the door—drawers being opened, papers thrown, the sound of glass breaking on the concrete floor. Whatever Karim was doing in there, he was leaving a path of destruction.

Archie started toward the door. Gretchen held him up, taking all of his weight, their bodies moving together. Underneath the destructive ruckus, Archie could still feel the pulse that beat between them. It was louder than the shattering glass, louder than wood cracking. It was the beat that kept him moving. He could feel it in his body. The pulse was rapid and thready and he knew it must be his. Tachycardia. Hypovolemic shock. Gretchen knew it, too. He could feel her fingers pressing into the soft inside of his wrist, monitoring him.