The thermometer beeped, and I pulled it out.

“Holy crackers, 103.5,” I said. “Like I thought, you’ve got an infection. I’ve stitched up dogs before, so I could stitch you, but cleaning up an infection is beyond my medical training level. You’ll need my mom for that.”

“I don’t want to get her involved,” he said, his eyes darting.

“Like I said, I can stitch you up. You’ve lost a lot of blood. But after that, it’s either my mom or the army doctors—and I know you don’t want to deal with them.”

Jordan rubbed his hands over his exhausted face, leaving streaks of blood.

“Jordan. Sweetie. Close your eyes while I do my magic. You need to relax and get some rest.”

“I can see in the dark, Maggie,” he said. “I’m faster, stronger, and smarter than I’ve ever been, and I can see in the dark. Plus, I know things—like the fact that they were FBI guys because they had a Glock 17M, and that’s the kind of gun that the FBI uses. The army standard issue is a SIG Sauer. How would I know a thing like that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Something crazy like reading? Or hearing it in the military camp where you spent most of the last year?”

He scowled.

“I’m going to close these wounds with Steri-Strips,” I said, “and Mom can clean it all out and stitch you up when she gets home.”

“Okay,” he muttered.

As I looked at my wounded pal, I wondered, Should I call the police? There’d obviously been a fight in which he’d been stabbed and slashed. I wasn’t the praying type, but I sent a plea out into the universe that my dear friend hadn’t shot—or, God forbid, killed—anyone.

I poured alcohol onto a square of gauze and wiped the leg wound, causing him to flinch. “Hey, I’m resting here,” he grumbled. Ah … a joke.

I pulled the surgery light closer and took out the large magnifying glass. I was clearing away the dried blood, but the surrounding skin was flaming red, and pus and blood oozed from the inch-and-a-half cut. It was a deep one, and who knew how dirty the weapon was?

I had no idea how much of Jordan’s story to believe, but I knew this: He needed medical help before the wound went septic. This was a precarious, potentially fatal situation, even for a patient in a top-notch hospital. For a wounded teen sitting atop an animals’ examination table awaiting the return of a sleep-deprived veterinarian who’d been dealing with crazed pooches feasting on mutton, all bets were off.

CHAPTER 27

Jordan

MAGGIE HELPED ME into the shotgun seat of the twenty-year-old metallic green Chevy Malibu, the beater her mom used for house calls when she didn’t need the pickup truck. Dr. Gooding was out in the pickup now—she’d be bringing back either wounded sheep or raging dogs, Maggie said—so there we were. Maggie had wrapped my leg and wrist tightly in cotton and gauze, but I still worried that I would drip blood onto the nubby cloth upholstery.