his chest-rattling sobs. His eyes are squeezed so tight. Snot drips from his nose, runs down his left lip and cheek.
He finally relaxes his legs, lets Aramovsky and me gently move them out of the way. He is flat on his back, body twitching slightly. His blood-drenched hands remain pressed hard against his stomach. From the chest down, his entire shirt is red.
Spingate grabs at Yong’s neck, pulls off his tie and hands it to me.
“Press this against the wound when I get his hands out of the way,” she says. “We need to stop the bleeding.”
I take the tie.
Spingate again leans close to Yong’s face.
“You have to move your hands,” she says. “Okay? Move your hands.”
Not knowing what else to do, I start petting his head like Spingate did, sliding my palm from his eyebrows back. Blood on my hand smears across his circle-star, gets into his hair.
His skin…it’s cool, clammy, and not just from the blood. He’s sweating.
I look at Spingate. “Do something!”
She tugs at his hands, trying to pull them away from his stomach. “I’m trying,” she says. “Can’t you see that I’m trying?”
Yong’s hands won’t budge. Spingate leans over them, pulls harder, but his hands stay in place, clutching so tight I wonder if his fingertips are punching through the skin, causing even more damage.
“Aramovsky,” she says, “help me here.”
He does as he’s told, his black-skinned fingers wrapping around Yong’s blood-covered wrists, pulling them gently but insistently, overpowering Yong’s resistance. Yong’s fingers clutch at open air.
“Mom…it hurts.”
Not as much energy in his words now. The
mom
comes out as a long, broken word:
maa-aaa-aahm.
Spingate rips Yong’s shirt open, sending buttons flying. His tan skin is a sheet of smeared red. She wipes her hands down his muscled belly, shoving away the blood, making him almost clean for a moment.
But only a moment, because red wells up out of a stab wound slightly above and to the left of his belly button. Gush, flow…gush, flow…
Spingate slaps my shoulder.
“
Em! The tie!”
I shove it against the wound, so fast he cries out like I punched him there. I press the tie firmly, hoping it will do what Spingate said it would do.
Yong looks at me with unfocused eyes.
“Mom? Please…make it stop.”
The words are weak. His hands relax, shift from clutching talons to limp fingers.
His eyes close. Did he pass out?
Spingate shakes him again.
“Yong!
Wake up!
”
The tie is already soaked, a wet washcloth that needs to be wrung out, but I keep it pressed in place.
“If he’s asleep, he won’t fight us,” I say. “Why don’t you want him to sleep?”
She looks at me, confused. “Why? I…I don’t know. Just because.”
Aramovsky glances at me, his eyes full of doubt. He doesn’t think Spingate knows what she’s doing. She doesn’t, clearly, but none of us do.
Yong’s entire body relaxes. His head tilts to the left. Aramovsky lowers Yong’s hands, puts them on the floor next to his hips.
Spingate is breathing too fast. She shakes her head. “I’m twelve,” she whispers. “I’m
twelve
.”
She rubs at her thighs. I see tears dripping down her cheeks.
“Stop it,” I hiss. “Crying doesn’t fix anything. Help him!”
Spingate looks at me, a fast glance where she catches my eyes, then her hands go back to work. She places them flat on Yong’s belly, one on either side of the tie.
“Em, lift it away, slowly,” she says, and I do.
The blood burbles out suddenly, like we’d filled a balloon and then opened the end. The brief gush flows down his side….
The gush that follows is much smaller.
I wait for the next one, but it doesn’t come.
The bleeding has stopped.
I look at the tie in my hands: red fabric soaked with red, red that drips down onto Yong, onto my legs, onto the floor. Yong’s blood has turned the dust beneath my knees from powder gray into a crimson slush.
Spingate blinks, like she just
He finally relaxes his legs, lets Aramovsky and me gently move them out of the way. He is flat on his back, body twitching slightly. His blood-drenched hands remain pressed hard against his stomach. From the chest down, his entire shirt is red.
Spingate grabs at Yong’s neck, pulls off his tie and hands it to me.
“Press this against the wound when I get his hands out of the way,” she says. “We need to stop the bleeding.”
I take the tie.
Spingate again leans close to Yong’s face.
“You have to move your hands,” she says. “Okay? Move your hands.”
Not knowing what else to do, I start petting his head like Spingate did, sliding my palm from his eyebrows back. Blood on my hand smears across his circle-star, gets into his hair.
His skin…it’s cool, clammy, and not just from the blood. He’s sweating.
I look at Spingate. “Do something!”
She tugs at his hands, trying to pull them away from his stomach. “I’m trying,” she says. “Can’t you see that I’m trying?”
Yong’s hands won’t budge. Spingate leans over them, pulls harder, but his hands stay in place, clutching so tight I wonder if his fingertips are punching through the skin, causing even more damage.
“Aramovsky,” she says, “help me here.”
He does as he’s told, his black-skinned fingers wrapping around Yong’s blood-covered wrists, pulling them gently but insistently, overpowering Yong’s resistance. Yong’s fingers clutch at open air.
“Mom…it hurts.”
Not as much energy in his words now. The
mom
comes out as a long, broken word:
maa-aaa-aahm.
Spingate rips Yong’s shirt open, sending buttons flying. His tan skin is a sheet of smeared red. She wipes her hands down his muscled belly, shoving away the blood, making him almost clean for a moment.
But only a moment, because red wells up out of a stab wound slightly above and to the left of his belly button. Gush, flow…gush, flow…
Spingate slaps my shoulder.
“
Em! The tie!”
I shove it against the wound, so fast he cries out like I punched him there. I press the tie firmly, hoping it will do what Spingate said it would do.
Yong looks at me with unfocused eyes.
“Mom? Please…make it stop.”
The words are weak. His hands relax, shift from clutching talons to limp fingers.
His eyes close. Did he pass out?
Spingate shakes him again.
“Yong!
Wake up!
”
The tie is already soaked, a wet washcloth that needs to be wrung out, but I keep it pressed in place.
“If he’s asleep, he won’t fight us,” I say. “Why don’t you want him to sleep?”
She looks at me, confused. “Why? I…I don’t know. Just because.”
Aramovsky glances at me, his eyes full of doubt. He doesn’t think Spingate knows what she’s doing. She doesn’t, clearly, but none of us do.
Yong’s entire body relaxes. His head tilts to the left. Aramovsky lowers Yong’s hands, puts them on the floor next to his hips.
Spingate is breathing too fast. She shakes her head. “I’m twelve,” she whispers. “I’m
twelve
.”
She rubs at her thighs. I see tears dripping down her cheeks.
“Stop it,” I hiss. “Crying doesn’t fix anything. Help him!”
Spingate looks at me, a fast glance where she catches my eyes, then her hands go back to work. She places them flat on Yong’s belly, one on either side of the tie.
“Em, lift it away, slowly,” she says, and I do.
The blood burbles out suddenly, like we’d filled a balloon and then opened the end. The brief gush flows down his side….
The gush that follows is much smaller.
I wait for the next one, but it doesn’t come.
The bleeding has stopped.
I look at the tie in my hands: red fabric soaked with red, red that drips down onto Yong, onto my legs, onto the floor. Yong’s blood has turned the dust beneath my knees from powder gray into a crimson slush.
Spingate blinks, like she just
Similar Books
