open, untucked, and with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He’s not wearing shoes. No shoes. It can’t be more than forty degrees out today. Even Justin would have a hard time with that. “Aren’t you freezing?”
He laughs. “No on both counts, kid.”
At first I’m like, Yeah, he’s right, I’d remember a dude like him, but the second he calls me “kid,” the feeling hits me stronger than ever. I try to find the connection but my head is throbbing, making thinking impossible. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’re in the middle of a river, I’m gushing blood all over the place, and maybe the tide is changing and this little island won’t be here an hour from now. “Look. I’m a little freaked out. I don’t know where I am or where my friends are. You wouldn’t happen to have a boat, would you?” I ask.
He grins at me, a slow grin. Why does he do everything slowly? And of course he doesn’t have a boat. He doesn’t even have shoes.
All right. Think think think. “How did you even get here, if you don’t have a boat?” But I already know the answer. I echo him as he says, “I’m a powerful good swimmer.”
He grins, and that’s my cue to freak out. How did I know that?
“So, wait. I do know you?”
He shakes his head. “Listen, kid, you’re wound up tighter than an eight-day clock. Relax for a minute.”
“Relax!” I start, but then I stop. No, I don’t know him, of course; I just hit my head or something and I’m not thinking straight.
He leans back, digging his palms in the dirt behind him. He’s tall, like Justin; he stretches out with his legs crossed at the ankles in front of him, and his feet touch the water. Unlike me, he doesn’t recoil from the cold of the river. I notice that his toes are a rather pleasing shade of brown. He has a tan. How can a guy in Maine in May have a tan? He doesn’t look like the type to frequent tanning salons; he looks more like Justin in that regard. The manly-man type. But even the manliest of men can end up utterly screwed by nature. Rule number one: Nature always kicks ass.
“Um, look. I can’t relax. You may be a powerful good swimmer, but I’m not. I’m hurt, and freezing, and I’m sure my friends are looking for me, so I need to get back to them. Can you help me?”
“Sure thing.” Then he grimaces. I look down and for the first time I notice he’s holding his arm, limp in front of him.
The blood is all over his hand. My blood? I lean forward. No, there’s a massive gash on the top of his forearm, stretching almost from his elbow to his wrist bone. It’s deep, too; the blood is a dark, thick purple. I gasp. “Oh my God.”
He laughs at me. “It’s nothing. Old war wound.”
He’s off his rocker. It’s fresh. And it’s bleeding everywhere. “No, you need …” I look around but there’s no spare fabric anywhere, and I can’t very well ask him to remove his worn shirt, since it’s probably as thin as paper. Grimacing, I reach down and pull off my water shoes, then remove the outer layer of socks. They’re damp, but they’ll have to do. I wrap the first sock around his arm as a tourniquet. It’s tough to tie because he happens to be kind of muscular there. Then I clamp the other one over the cut. It’s instantly saturated. “We’ve got to get you help.”
He looks at my handiwork. “Thanks, kid. But it’s just fine.”
It’s really not just fine. We’re both bleeding. We’ll probably die here in a puddle of our own blood. “How did you do that, anyway?”
He shrugs. “Don’t remember. Jumping in the water, I guess.”
“To save me? You pulled me out?”
He stares at his arm. “That I did, but … I don’t …” He looks confused, sad. “I don’t remember lots of things.”
“Well, thank you,” I say. My sock is now dripping with blood. Little crimson drops begin to puddle on the sand. “Oh God. That’s really bad. Are you sure you’re okay?”
He laughs. “Unwind, girl. You want to see bad, you should have seen your back.”
“What?” I shriek. Is it possible my wound is as bad? Um, worse? All this time I’ve been sitting here, I’d almost forgotten about it. It didn’t even hurt much. I crane to see my