Alessandre was shot in his leg and left arm. He's been in the hospital for six hours. The bullets were already removed. And according to the doctor, he can already go home tomorrow, and he's advised to rest for a week before going back to work.
I was cleaning Atlas' room when I received a call informing me about what had transpired to him.
“Where are you going?” I ask with a wrinkled forehead when he slowly swings his feet over the side of the bed and sits up. I'm sitting in a chair, next to his bed. I stand up. Rounding to the side, I unhook the dextrose from the stand and hold it up.
“Move slowly, sir,” I say, holding his arm as he stands up.
“Where do you want to go?” I ask again.
“Bathroom,” he responds, face contorted with pain. The bullets were just removed an hour ago, so hi
