out the word from between his teeth. When I just stare, he snaps his fingers. “Do you have any alcohol?”
I shake my head. My family doesn’t drink. Not after Mom’s last stint in rehab all those years ago and Dad’s constant insistence on “therapeutic” sobriety. And Branden’s…issues.
“Shit,” he hisses. “Can you get some?” He watches me carefully. I notice that one of his hands is clenched into a fist and presses down hard against his upper left thigh. The blood keeps appearing in random places—all over his hands and the armrests of my comfy chair. It’s even pooling on the floor at his feet.
“Hey!” He snaps his fingers again. “Can. You. Get. Some?” His lips move slowly, each word carefully enunciated.
Get some. I bolt into the hallway, leaving the door to my apartment wide open. My heels slip on a puddle of scarlet, and I barely catch my balance against the nearest wall. Focus!
Somehow, I’m three units down and knocking on a door with peeling red paint and the scent of cigar smoke wafting from underneath it.
“Hi,” I greet the man who answers the door brightly—a stranger I’ve never taken the time to meet before now. He’s wearing a wifebeater stained with what looks like broth, and I can catch the hint of a naughty movie playing across the old-fashioned TV that dominates his living room.
“Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you,” I start in a rush, “but I’m having some friends over, and I forgot to run to the store for some drinks—” I somehow choke out a laugh. “Do you have…any that I could, um, borrow?”
My fingers are shaking. My toes feel sticky, and God, I’m too terrified to glance down and see why.
The man—who I vaguely recall from a few awkward exchanges at the collective mailbox—eyes me for what feels like an eternity. Then he turns without a word and rummages through what sounds like cupboards out of sight. A moment later, he returns with two green bottles. “Enjoy,” he grunts before pressing both into my hands and closing the door in my face.
When I finally re-enter my apartment, Rafe’s still seated on my armchair, but his shirt is off. Most likely the wad of dark fabric he has pressed against his thigh.
“Good.” He nods to the bottles of alcohol. “Bring them here.”
I manage to get the door closed one-handed and stagger over to him. He snatches one of the bottles, rips off the cap, takes a sip, and then grimaces. “Sake,” he announces after swallowing. His blood streaks the bottle as he settles it between his hip and the gap in the seat cushion. With one hand, he lifts his bloodied shirt, revealing the bleeding gash along the inside of his left thigh.
“He stabbed you,” I hear myself whisper. It’s a nasty wound, unfathomably deep, and I know right away that he’ll need stitches. It isn’t until he reaches out and bats my hands away—causing my phone to fall to the floor—that I realize I was already in the process of dialing 911.
“No,” he growls. “No cops.”
For once, it’s easy to shrug off the voice that rumbles through my skin. “I’m not letting you bleed to death on my La-Z-Boy—”
“You don’t have to.” He grunts and tries to stand, but his knees buckle. I can almost see the color draining from his skin. “I can fix this. Get me a knife.” His voice isn’t so gruff anymore, lacking the spark I’m used to. He sounds exhausted and in pain. Weak.
911 feels like the only option.
“You need stitches,” I insist.
“You’re right.” Surprisingly, he nods. “Do you have a needle?” His calm tone throws me off. “Do you sew?” he adds in response to my blank stare. “Do you—”
“I…I have a sewing kit.” The admission drives me over to the hall closet, where I store my raincoat and umbrella. My fingers shake as I reach for the plastic Hello Kitty lunchbox resting on the topmost shelf and pull it down. Inside it are the remains of my supplies from a brief interest in embroidery a few summers ago. The only thread I have is in three shades of pink. A pincushion, shaped like a rubber duck, holds an array of needles, but my vision is blurring too badly to make out a single one.
“Any luck, bunny?” I sense Rafe watching me from across the room, but I don’t look up when I finally bring the kit over to him and fish out a single sewing needle.
He eyes the strip of metal