Wait for the paramedics
“No,” I say. “I’m not going to leave a woman who’s bleeding to death alone in an alley. Forget it.”
I hang up on the operator.
“Forget her,” I say to no one in particular. Then to the woman, “They’ll be here soon, okay? Just hang in there. Help is on the way.”
I have to hope that despite the shitty advice, the operator will do her damn job.
The woman’s hand is sticky in mine. The blood is drying. And her hands are colder and colder with each touch. The smell of blood is so thick that it’s surpassed that coppery tang and has become sweet and almost aromatic.
My stomach turns.
My ears prick at the sound of rubber bouncing over cobblestones. Tires. And the soft purr of an engine.
Then I see the lights, flickering over the brownstone.
“I have to make sure they
