“Everyone out,” Sarah ordered. “Sarah, I said out. Give me 5 minutes. If he hasn’t calmed down, you can call security.” Brenda hesitated, then signaled the orderlys to retreat. The door clicked shut, leaving Sarah and the colonel alone again. Graves looked at her confused. He expected her to run. He wanted her to run.
If she ran, it proved he was right, that nobody could handle him, that he was too broken for this world. “Why are you still here?” Graves whispered his voice, trembling with exhaustion. Because your leg is rotting, Colonel. And if we don’t clean it now, you’re going to lose it. And a man like you doesn’t deserve to lose a leg in a hospital bed.
You deserve to walk out of here. She approached him again. This time he didn’t yell. He just watched her. She moved with a strange, heavy confidence. She didn’t walk like a nurse. She walked with a low center of gravity, planting her feet firmly. “I’m going to cut the bandage,” she said. “It’s going to hurt. I’m not going to lie to you and tell you a little pinch. It’s going to feel like fire.
” “I know what fire feels like.” Graves gritted out. Sarah reached for the saline bottle. She began to soak the dried, crusty gores that had adhered to the wound. Graves gripped the side rails of the bed, his knuckles turning white. He stared at the ceiling, refusing to make a sound. Sarah worked quickly. Her hands were steady.
She didn’t flinch at the smell of the infection, which was pungent and sweet in a sickening way. She peeled back the layers. “Talk to me,” Sarah said suddenly. “What?” Graves gasped through gritted teeth. Distract yourself. Talk to me. You mentioned Private Miller. Tell me about him. Graves shut his eyes tight. Miller? He was my RTO radio operator.
Good kid. We were in We were in the Arandab River Valley 2010, not 2009. My mistake, Sarah said, peeling the final layer. We took fire from a treeine. Miller took a round to the neck. I tried. I tried to pack it, but the blood, it was too slippery. A single tear leaked out of the colonel’s eye, tracking through the deep lines of his face. I couldn’t get a grip.
He bled out on me. He was 19. He had a girlfriend named Becky back in Columbus. Sarah paused. Her hands hovered over the open wound. For a second, her professional mask slipped. A look of profound sorrow crossed her face, but she shook it off instantly. He didn’t die because of you, Colonel, she said softly.
You don’t know that, he spat. I do. A neck wound like that usually the corroted. You have 3 minutes. If the chopper isn’t there in 3 minutes, God himself couldn’t save him. She grabbed the forceps. “Okay, deep breath. I have to debride the dead tissue.” Graves howled. It was a guttural low sound. He thrashed his arm out, blindly, grabbing onto Sarah’s forearm to brace himself against the agony.
His grip was iron tight, his fingernails digging into her skin. Sarah didn’t pull away. She let him crush her arm while she worked on his leg with her other hand. She cleaned the wound, flushed it, and packed it with fresh algenate. “Almost done. Almost done, Silus. Breathe.” She called him by his first name. He didn’t correct her.
Leave a Comment