“Okay,” Javier says. His hairline is beaded with sweat. After a pause, he adds, “I mean, it hurts.”

“Try to stay calm.” Cole’s own voice is calm nearly to the point of disinterest. “The more stressed you get, the higher your blood pressure. Which makes you pump out more blood. If we had a field kit, I could dump some coagulants in the wound. But we’ve got nothing.”

Cole sounds so knowledgeable. His hair seems too long, but … “Are you in the army or something?” Miranda asks.

“My brothers were.” His voice falters, and he looks in the direction of the food court, his face contorting.

She doesn’t ask any more. Doesn’t want to know what that past tense means. Or how long it’s been true.

On top of the desk is a sports water bottle. Cole undoes the cap and sniffs. “Water,” he says, handing it to Javier. “Here. Take little sips every minute or two. Drinking is about the only way to replace the blood you’ve lost. But don’t drink too much or too fast or you’ll throw up.”

Miranda holds up the Ace bandage. “Can you help me bandage his leg?”

Cole takes the length of tan elastic from her. “Why do you have this?”

“I hurt my ribs.” Hopefully, Javier won’t say anything about the mascara.

“I thought doctors didn’t strap ribs anymore,” Cole says. “It’s bad for them to be immobile.” When her only answer is a shrug, he turns to Javier. “Let’s take a look at the wound first. Maybe we can pack it with something.”

Cole takes the scissors from the desk and washes them in the bathroom. Returning, he pinches the cloth around the bullet hole on the front of Javier’s thigh and then cuts out a circle. Javier holds himself still, his face shining with sweat.

Cole wipes the blood away with a sweater. The wound, which is toward the outside of his thigh, is not as scary as Miranda feared. About as wide as her pinky, it looks more like a puncture.

“That’s got to be the entrance wound,” Cole says. He spreads a clean sweater next to Javier’s legs and then has him roll onto his belly. On the back, the wound is about the size of a nickel, with ragged edges. Even after Cole wipes it clean, blood wells up steadily. Both Amina and Grace look once, grimace, and then look away.

“You’re super lucky it missed bone.” Cole’s words are cheerful, but his expression, which Javier can’t see, is grim. “And that it went straight through.” He looks at Amina. “Does the store sell anything clean and small I could pack the wound with to try to stop the bleeding?”

Amina scans the shelves. “Maybe we could cut up a scarf?”

Javier props himself on his elbows. “Do you have that thing for girls?”