“Want to know what I did to the last person who came at me with a syringe?” His voice is low, with a dangerous timbre to it. “I squeezed the life out of that dickhead.”
“Good thing I have a horse tranquilizer in my kit.” I pull my hand free and jam the hypodermic into his side next to the cut.
As I pull the syringe away and reach for the needle and thread, he just watches me in silence. I’m struggling to focus on what I have to do, overwhelmed by being able to touch him again after all these years. So many questions roll through my mind—questions I want to yell into his face and demand answers to.
Where were you? Why didn’t you come, at least once, if only to let me know you’re alive? Why did you leave me?
I don’t ask any of them. What’s the point?
I begin the first suture. Even with
