|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"That's stupid. You need help." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Get something," he ordered. His voice was harsh and panic-stricken. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
She stared at him momentarily then raced out of the kitchen, down the hall to the bathroom. Within seconds she was back, frantically wrapping his mutilated hand in a large soiled towel. "I . . . I don't think this will do it," she stammered. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Do the best you can," he said sternly. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Cappy struggled with the profusion of blood, but she was losing ground. A torrential stream pumped from the severed artery in his wrist, bathing him in a sticky pool of his own blood. He leaned his head back against the wall. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Look," Cappy fumed, "I don't know what it is with you, but you're hurt, hurt real bad. If I don't get you to the hospital and quick, you're as good as kissing your trip back to the States off for good." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Can't go back anyway," he admitted weakly. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"What do you mean, you can't go back? This is your big day, fly boy; rotation day, remember?" She had stopped fussing with the blood-soaked towel to glare at him. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Can't go back," he repeated. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Cappy peeled back the towel and probed at the tangled mess of shattered bone and carti- |
|
|
|
|
|