"I lost a lot of blood," I said, slowly. "Think I'm still leaking."
"You need a doctor."
I shook my head. My mouth was dry, maybe because I was going shocky, maybe from sleep-induced cottonmouth. I was thirsty. "Too many questions."
"Answering questions is better than being dead."
"I'll be all right. Just need a safe place for a day or two. Just to get repaired. Get some sleep."
"'Repaired'? You sound like you're a fucking car."
"Vroom vroom," I said. The house was an old stone cottage, weathered and small, its front door painted bright red, and the same color had been applied to the shutters fastened open at the windows. A dry stone fence marked the property from the narrow road, a fast-moving stream flowing just beyond, crossed by a metal grate bridge. The actual farmland itself was overgrown and unkept, disused.
"Seamus makes more renting the place to tourists than working the land," Bridgett explained.
"Seamus is your cousin."
"Seamus is my cousin, yes."
"Seamus," I said.
"We're Irish, fuck off," Bridgett said. She parked the Ford with its nose facing the road, yanked the parking brake.
The red door opened, Alena moving into it, concealing her right side behind the frame for a moment before stepping out. She had a shotgun with her, double-barreled, more suited for downing birds than people, but if it worked for Dick Cheney, it would sure as hell work for her. I got out of the car carefully. Bridgett had already grabbed my bag.
"He was stabbed," Bridgett told Alena.
"Cut, not stabbed," I corrected. "Stabbed would've been worse."
Alena's mouth tightened to a line, her lips losing their color.
"He's in shock. He's going to decompensate."
She held out a hand for me, and I reached for it, but she took me by my elbow instead.
"Nice shotgun," I mumbled.
"It's what was here." Alena guided me through the door. It was considerably darker inside, the windows small, the lights low-wattage. Alena led me to a bedroom, and I started to remove my suit coat, but she stopped me, growling a warning.
"Where?" she asked.
"Left palm, right upper forearm, left oblique," I managed. "Left oblique's still bleeding."
"Stop moving." She came around behind me, carefully began tugging the sleeve off my arm. Bridgett had moved into the doorway, watching, and I heard paws on the dark hardwood, saw Miata peer around her knee at me.
"Hey, buddy," I told him.
Alena helped me with the shirt, and I saw that I'd leaked through it despite all my precautions. She told me to lie down, and I did so for what seemed like the first time in three days, felt my whole body shudder, almost a spasm, as muscles I hadn't known were clenched suddenly relaxed.
"Make yourself useful," Alena told Bridgett, shoving a pillow beneath my legs to elevate them. "Water, towels."
"Bitch," Bridgett said, cheerfully, but left the doorway. Miata hesitated, then came into the bedroom and lay down beside the bed.
"You could make an effort," I told Alena.
"She's just standing there, she shouldn't need to be told to help," Alena said. "This one on your side I don't like. You are tearing it when you move."
"We should probably do something about that."
She knelt down on her haunches, putting the wound at eye level, careful not to touch it. "Only blood?"
"Far as I know."
"So maybe the peritoneum was not perforated." She hissed softly. "I don't want to risk infection, or further infection. We need to sterilize, and we'll need to stitch it."
"Can you do that yourself?" Bridgett had a couple of towels over one arm, was carrying a porcelain bowl with a matching porcelain pitcher resting in it.
"I don't know nothin' about birthin' no babies," I said.
Both women glared at me.
"Nothing," I said. "Never mind."
Bridgett handed Alena a small bottle of antibacterial hand wash. "This help?"
"We need things," Alena said, taking the bottle. She squirted a generous amount onto her hands, began rubbing them vigorously together. "Ringer's solution and a catheter. Betadine or some other sterile wash. Saline, a lot of it. Needle-nose pliers. Thin needle, thin thread, silk is ideal. Antibiotics if we can get them, a Z-Pak would be best."
"I should be able to get all that in Galway. Everything but the Ringer's, at least."
"Then what are you waiting for?"
"Fucking," said Bridgett. "Bitch." It was dark in the room when Bridgett returned, to find Alena sitting beside me, still holding the towel she was using as a bandage to apply pressure to the wound. I'd either slept or passed out since Bridgett had left, depending on whether one wanted to be charitable.
Bridgett flipped on the lights, then moved to the foot of the bed to dump out the contents of the plastic shopping bag she was carrying. Alena stopped her.
"Show me."
The look Bridgett gave her would've dropped a charging rhino. With a deliberation verging on surliness, she began removing items from the bag, one at a time. Alena told her where she wanted each set down. When she produced two bags of Ringer's solution and a catheter, Alena actually made a noise of approval.
"Did I get everything, ma'am?" Bridgett asked.
"We're going to need more light," Alena replied. "And a candle or lighter."
It took Bridgett a couple of minutes to gather the items and then return, during which time Alena left the bandage at my side to use the antiseptic wash on my arm and hook up the first bag of Ringer's. Bridgett returned as the catheter was going in, and she winced visibly at the sight. She asked Alena where she wanted the lamp she was carrying, placed it as directed.
In my daze, I realized something.
"When was the last time you did this?"
"Long time ago. Afghanistan." She actually smiled at me. "The vet in Poti was a good reminder."
"You are motherfucking kidding me," Bridgett said. "Let's take him to the goddamn hospital!"
"It's the same procedure," said Alena. "We can do this. Come here."
Together, they rolled me onto my right side, propping me up with more pillows. When Alena pulled the towel away from the wound, it pulled the clot that had formed with it, causing fresh pain and bringing fresh blood. She dumped all of one of the bottles of saline on the wound, irrigating it, soaking the bed and the pillows in the process with a mixture of blood and salt water. Then she dumped the antiseptic wash into the basin, scrubbing her hands and forearms. I smelled fire, saw Bridgett prepping the needle. When it was ready, she offered the pliers to Alena.
"No," Alena said, washing the length of thread she'd prepared in the basin. "We might cross-contaminate. You will stitch."
"The fuck you say," Bridgett said.
"I will hold the wound closed, you will do the stitching."
"Not me, sister."
"Ebi tvoyu boga dush mat'! Yes, you! Come here!"
"I can't sew him shut! I can't do it!"
I managed to raise my head, focused as best I could on Bridgett. I wasn't sure I was following. "You've got a hoop through your nostril. You have a half pound's worth of earrings in each of your ears."
"That's different! I didn't have to give myself the piercings!"
"You used to fucking shoot heroin, Bridgett," I said. "Don't tell me you're afraid of needles."
"Why do you think I'm scared of them, motherfucker?"
Alena swore in Russian again, this time to herself. I thought for certain the next thing she'd say in English would be a threat, and I was still present enough to know that if it was, things would go all the way downhill.
"Please, Bridgett," Alena said. "I need your help."
Bridgett stared at her. "Don't try to play me. Never fucking do that, okay?"
"Okay."
It took another second, then Bridgett moved out of my line of sight, to join Alena behind me. There was more explanation from Alena, what she wanted Bridgett to do, and then I felt the needle pushing through my skin, and it surprised me because it hurt a hell of a lot more than I'd expected. They worked slowly and carefully, and that didn't help, either. It hurt enough that I hadn't realized they were finished until they were moving the pillows, rolling me onto my back.