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One
Thegirlreachedoutonefilthyhandtothedoor,anditswungopen.
NeverthoughtI’dbepleasedthatthedoorhadn’tlatchedproperly,thoughtRichard,andhecarriedthegirlin—closingthedoorbehindhimwithhisfoot—andputherdownonhisbed.Hisshirtfrontwassoakedinblood.
Sheseemedsemiconscious;hereyeswereclosed,butfluttering.Hepeeledoffherleatherjacket.Therewasalongcutonherleftupperarmandshoulder.Richardcaughthisbreath."Look,I’mgoingtocalladoctor,"hesaidquietly."Canyouhearme?"
Hereyesopened,wideandscared."Please,no.It’llbefine.It’snotasbadasitlooks.Ijustneedsleep.Nodoctors."
"Butyourarm—yourshoulder—"
"I’llbefine.Tomorrow.Please?"Itwaslittlemorethanawhisper.
"Um,Isuppose,allright,"andwithsanitybeginningtoassertitself,hesaid,"Look,canIask—?"
Butshewasasleep.Richardtookanoldscarffromhisclosetandwrappeditfirmlyaroundherleftupperarmandshoulder;hedidnotwanthertobleedtodeathonhisbedbeforehecouldgethertoadoctor.Andthenhetiptoedoutofhisbedroomandshutthedoorbehindhim.Hesatdownonthesofa,infrontofthetelevision,andwonderedwhathehaddone.
