“I’ve got to go upstairs and get my first-aid kit. I’ll be right back. Press this to your side until I get back, okay?”
He nods, gritting his teeth together as he presses over the wound.
Flying up the stairs, I head into the bathroom and yank open the medicine cabinet. I grab whatever supplies I think I’ll need and reach for the first-aid kit under the sink. Rushing into my room, I throw on a T-shirt, as I’m only in a camisole, then I google bullet wounds for dummies. I still have no idea what I’m doing, but I’m back downstairs in less than two minutes. I make a beeline for the freezer and pull out a bottle of vodka.
Jude has his head thrown back, blood staining his hand, but the flow has thankfully subsided.
“You’re not going to pass out, are you?” I ask, rushing over to his side and
