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wrapped around the place where I had
scratched him six days ago, before wrapping the sleeve just below his shoulder
and tying a snug knot. I tore his other sleeve as well, tying this one to his
thigh. The wound at his side would do okay with just the fabric surrounding it;
it was just a surface wound.
    This wasn’t the first time I’d had to
remove bullets from a live person in order to save them. I had done this with
Dad, when we’d been out hunting without Mom; Mom had stayed behind that time,
at our commune of the season. Dad had gotten shot by someone trying to steal
from him. That time, I’d also killed the offender before setting Dad right. It
helped that he’d still been conscious at the time, and was able to guide me
through the steps.
    This time, I was alone. But I had to do
it, because the man would die otherwise. And then I wouldn’t be able to kill
him myself.
    I took off my backpack, still stained
from the long gone blackberries, and started rummaging around. I brought out a
tweezers, replaced the backpack on my back, then leaned in closely to the wound
on his thigh. I put one hand around it, using my fingers to push down around
the wound; it oozed blood, coating my fingers and revealing the glint of metal.
    I stuck the tweezers right into the hole,
and plucked the bullet out, dropping it to the ground. I took one of Mom’s
shirts out of my backpack, tightly wrapping the wound.
    I moved on to his arm, doing the same. I
had no more fabric at this point, though, so I tore off one of my own sleeves.
I took out my water and drizzled some into his open mouth. Then I sat, watching
him and waiting for him to wake up.
    I practiced thinking about nothing,
clearing my mind of all thought as I waited. I tried not to think about what I
would do if he died. I tried not to think about my parents. I tried to think
about nothing.
    Finally, his eyelids fluttered, though
they stayed closed. He swallowed.
    “You awake?” I asked.
    He grunted.
    “Okay, listen: I think you’re at risk for
infection. Not only do we not know where the bullets came from, but I didn’t sterilize
my tweezers when I got the bullets out of you. So, now that you’re awake, I’m
going to help you lift your head. Then I’m going to place two pills in your
mouth that’ll stop any infections, and then I’ll give you some water. Got it?”
    He grunted again, so I took that as a
yes. I fumbled in my backpack, looking through all the different bottles,
reading their labels and pulling from memory what each of those labels meant.
The first one I wanted, ciprofloxacin, was at the bottom. The second, metronidazole,
I came across on the way down. This incident was going to put a huge dent into
my supply, but what was I using them for? Nothing, at the moment. And, once I’d
killed this man, it might not matter to me anymore whether I died from
infection or not.
    I took the pills out of their containers,
then slipped my right hand under his head, gently lifting. “Can you open your
mouth for me?” I asked.
    He did so, and I placed the pills on his
tongue, quickly wiping my hand on my jeans afterwards. I lifted my water to his
lips. He took a sip, then lifted his undamaged arm, hand clasping the bottle
and chugging more thoroughly. As he drank, his eyes opened.
    He pushed the bottle away and coughed. I
set his head back down on the asphalt. “You didn’t just poison me, did you?” he
asked hoarsely.
    “What? No. I just saved your life.”
    “Really. And why am I still alive?”
    “Do you really think I was going to let
someone else kill you?”
    “Wait. So you saved my life so that you
could kill me yourself?”
    “ I’m the one who’s going to kill you, and no
one is taking that from me. God, you have no idea how I felt, knowing you
were slipping away!”
    “Like I was evading you.”
    “Yes!” How’d he understand that? He
didn’t already know me that well, did he? I guess I’d never made my thoughts a
secret from him. I always wanted