He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. He’s probably had many guns stuck in his face before. The tension in the room is thick, the muted sound of Kendall’s breathing the only thing breaking the silence.
“This the patient?” he asks, gesturing toward Kendall.
I nod, my throat tight, and Jimmy steps toward her, his leather bag creaking softly as he sets it down. His sharp eyes scan her injuries—the awkward angle of her shoulder, the stark white bandage standing out against her cheekbone like a brand.
“It’s my shoulder,” she says, her voice soft but steady, though I can see the strain behind it.
“And your cheek,” he comments. His voice is calm, almost clinical, as if assessing injuries is as routine as brushing his teeth. “Let’s get that shoulder stabilized, and then we’ll
