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your eyes and take a deep breath,” he instructed.
    I frowned but did as he asked.
    He placed one hand under the injured arm, the other grasping the tattered bandage, and started counting, “One....Two...” and quickly pulled the last of the bonded cloth away.
    I pressed my teeth together and groaned, body tensing as a swarm of tears flooded my vision.
    It was that bad.
    I watched as fresh blood began to flow from the frayed wound. Crimson drops dripped into the sink, a vivid dissimilarity against the gleaming white porcelain. I focused on that and the way the red swirled and turned pink.
    Caleb opened the second bottle, pouring the remaining water over my skin. It ran down the side of the sink and into the drain, merging with the blood, taking a part of me with it.
    "Almost done,” he said.
    He ripped apart the packages, choosing a large square bandage and placing it carefully over the laceration. I held my breath and bit my lower lip as it started to pulsate. My free hand wiped away the tears forming in the corner of my eyes. Caleb studied his handiwork, testing the edges before stepping away.
    "It's not as bad as I thought, but it's going to leave a scar."
    "As long as I keep the arm, I won't complain."
    I patted the clean bandage and stood straight, sniffing away the moisture in my nose and clearing my throat.
    I recalled the distinctive buzzing sound that whizzed by my ear. Judging by the arm, I was pretty sure I'd been shot. This was not the way I'd thought I'd spend my Saturday morning—dodging bullets.
    I grabbed the plastic bottle of soda, removing the lid and taking a heaping swallow. The welcoming taste of cold carbonation was wonderful against my parched throat, and I sighed contentedly.
    Thank heaven for small pleasures.
    Caleb tossed the empty bottle and bandages into the aluminum trashcan before walking to the door. He held it ajar and I stepped around him, the sun momentarily blinding me. Derek stood next to the enormous silver Chevy, peering up as we approached. He snapped the phone shut and shifted his body away from the hood.
    "Sam said it's got to be the Pit. The bastards are everywhere. I guess we should bypass the safe house. It's probably not so ‘safe’ anymore."
    "And Luca,” Caleb asked, his voice revealing a hint of unease, “Is there any word from him?"
    Derek ran a large hand over his bald head, rubbing the surface erratically—as if he were trying to remove something—before flinging his arm to the side. “Sam said he's decided to move. If Tristan keeps this up, he's going to draw attention at some point."
    "Anyone care to fill me in here?"
    I tried to make sense of their conversation but couldn't follow. Sam was their boss. I'd gotten that earlier.
    "Tristan is the one that sent those parasites after you. And he's making more, an army of them, even now.” Derek shook his head in annoyance. “Eventually people will notice. It was bad enough he sent half a dozen to find you."
    "But—” I didn't get to finish my sentence.
    "We can talk about it as we drive,” Caleb said quickly, nestling his hand into the small of my back once more, guiding me to the silver Chevy.
    He opened the door, waiting patiently as I climbed inside before following closely behind. Even with the benefit of dark tinted windows the black leather was hot against my skin, and I scurried to the shaded side.
    I pulled the safety belt across my lap and notched the latch into place. Each trip in a car was a constant and painful reminder of my Mom, and sadly, a warning of the danger of traveling unrestrained.
    Derek sauntered over and slid into the driver's seat. I heard the scrape of keys over metal and plastic as he found the ignition. He turned them over and the engine roared to life.
    "To the Pit,” Derek asked, waiting.
    The engine revved and he and Caleb made eye contact through the rearview mirror.
    "To the Pit.” Caleb nodded and looked away, staring outside the window.
    We backed out of the station and I