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Kristina
It takes about fifteen minutes for me to arrive home, but I make it with the stranger slumped in the front seat, completely silent and very still. I think he’s alive. I’m hoping he is, anyway. I park the pickup near the main house instead of by the barn as I usually do, and turn off the engine. I shift in my seat. Hesitantly, I reach out to lay a hand on the stranger’s cheek. He’s cold, but breathing. Don’t know for how long, though. I’m positive bringing him home is one of the most idiotic things I’ve ever done, but it’s too late to turn things around. We’re here and he is in desperate need of some kind of medical attention, which Grandma Rose has some experience in and I’m praying the knowledge she does have is enough to save this man’s life.
Is he worth saving? Did I do the right thing? Doubts continuously crowd my mind. I trace the cut on the side of his neck with the tip of my index finger. Did he end up as someone’s prey? Or did he deserve this treatment?
I snatch my hand away, appalled by my actions. Don’t touch, I berate myself. Unless he turns out to be a bigger danger than those who beat the living crap out of him, I’ll limit my compassion to making sure he lives long enough to get the hell away from us.
I rush out of the truck, run to the wooden staircase, up the steps, and to the front door, which I immediately open. I find Grandma sitting on her favorite blue recliner with a book in her hands. Her expression is one of bewilderment as she takes her gaze away from the printed pages to glance up at me.
“Kristina? What’s wrong?” Grandma tosses her book aside and flies off the chair. “You’re soaked to the skin.” She hurries to me.
“Well, I—”
“I told you not to go to Amy’s house in that beat-up truck. I swear, girl, you’re one hardheaded—just like your granddaddy, you are.” She walks over to the couch, grabs a quilt that’s folded on top of the cushions, and wraps it around my shoulders. “Did the window finally break?”
“Grandma—” I try to get a word in but she doesn’t let me.
“Amy said you left over an hour ago? Where have you been?” She pushes my hair away from my face. “I was beginning to think the truck broke down on the highway and you were stranded somewhere.”
“You have no idea what just happened.” I’m shivering now. My clothing clings to me like an extra skin.
“What’s going on?” There’s concern etched on Grandma’s face.
“There’s an injured man in my truck.”
Grandma Rose blinks. “What?”
“I was on my way over here from Amy’s house when I...think I hit a man...he doesn’t want to go to the hospital because he says he’s being pursued and I—”
“Slow down, honey. You’re babbling.” Grandma grabs my forearms. “You’re as pale as a ghost.”
I inhale, take a moment, and then exhale. Once I get that out of my system, I hastily explain the accident and the injured stranger in my truck. When I finish, Grandma Rose’s reaction is nothing like what I’d anticipate. She’s surprisingly calm and this baffles me. I’m getting ready to freak out, but she looks as if I bring an injured man home every day and this isn’t the first time.
“Is he asleep?” she asks at last, breaking the awkward silence in the room.
“He was when I came up here. Or...maybe he’s unconscious. I’m not sure,” I reply with a frown. “He’s in really bad shape.”
“Let’s go check him out.” She ambles to the front porch. I pause to toss the wet quilt aside.
“You’re not even going to yell at me for bringing home a stranger?” I march out to the porch and find Grandma Rose putting on her rain boots.
“I’ll yell at you plenty later. First, let’s establish what kind of help this gentleman needs.” She turns around to face me. “Will you get the umbrella? It’s in the stand behind the door. And fetch my raincoat while you’re at it.”
I gawk at her briefly before spinning and marching into the living room. I search for the items Grandma requested and hurry to her. She’s waiting for me by the stairs.
“Put it on.” She takes the umbrella and opens it.
I give the coat a once-over before shaking my head. “What for? I’m already soaking wet.”
“Do as I tell you.” She gives me the stink-eye. “You’re going to catch your death of cold, child. Don’t argue with me, and put it on.” I appease her by donning the garment on.
“Let’s go see what you’ve brought home.” She marches down the stairs without a backward glance, and apparently, unconcerned. What’s up with that?
I slip the hood of the raincoat over my head before starting after her. I catch up quickly, staying nearby in case she slips and falls, but I don’t give her enough credit. Grandma Rose is in her sixties but she’s stronger than most women her age.
“On second thought...” she stops at the last step, “...go bring me my shotgun,” she shouts over her right shoulder.
I stop halfway down the stairs. “What?”
“I’ll feel better if I have something cold and deadly in my hands,” she says. “If he turns out to be something other than a poor soul in need of help, he’s getting a belly full of lead.”
“God, Grandma...” the protest getting ready to exit my mouth dies instantly. How can I complain when it was me who brought a bleeding stranger home? There’s no doubt in my mind Grandma Rose won’t hesitate to use deadly force if need be.
A shiver runs down my spine and it has nothing to do with feeling cold and clammy. I hope it doesn’t come down to that.
“Where is it?”
“Inside the trunk in the hall closet. Be extra careful with it ‘cause it’s already loaded,” she replies.
I head up the stairs and through the entryway. I turn to the right where the hall that leads to the kitchen is, and open the first door to the left. The trunk is on the bottom of the closet, just where Grandma said it would be. I lift the lid and find the shotgun resting inside.
Grandma is not a violent person but she keeps weapons handy just in case. Granddad had a collection of guns, rifles, and shotguns she has hidden all around the house. I’m not sure what she means by the just in case part, but that’s how she puts it.
She’s still waiting by the wooden staircase when I return. “Find it?” She glances up at me.
“Here?” I hand it over. She checks it. When she says, “It’s good to go,” I figure she’s making sure it’s ready to shoot.
“Okay,” I respond.
Grandma offers me her umbrella. “Hold this for me.”
I hold the umbrella over both our heads. “All right.”
We start toward the truck together. I can see the stranger through the windshield, still sitting in the passenger seat in the same exact position I left him in.
“Oh, God, Grandma. I think he’s dead.” My voice quivers.
“Let me check him out first.” Grandma sounds more confident and less afraid than I am. “Open the door.”
I toss a startled look in her direction. “I’m not sure we should—maybe we should call the sheriff.”
“You drove all the way out here with him in the passenger seat and you won’t open the door?” She looks at me like there’s something wrong with me. “Come on, Kristina. We need to know if he’s still alive and if he is, we need to figure out how we can help him.”
“Okay, okay.” I let out some air. I muster some bravado, grab the handle, and pull. The door opens fairly easy, revealing the sleeping passenger inside.
Grandma’s ready and points the shotgun right at him, but he doesn’t move.
“I think he’s dead,” I whisper.
Grandma rushes to him and checks for signs of life. “He’s asleep.”
“Unconscious?”
“Possibly—”
The stranger opens his eyes and looks at us. The abruptness of his actions surprises me and I jump, smacking my head against the door frame.
“Crap,” I mutter.
“Help.” His voice is so low I can barely hear him.
“Jesus Christ!” Grandma Rose puts down the shotgun, propping it against the rear wheel of the pickup truck. “Why didn’t you tell me this man was this badly hurt?”
“I—” I can’t believe she’s reprimanding me right now.
The stranger sits up; his golden brown eyes focused on Grandma.
“We’ll help you.” She offers him her hand.
He stares at it the same way a stray dog does during its first encounter with a human. There’s something feral in his eyes. I hadn’t paid much attention to his eyes before, but looking at them directly...there’s something different about those orbs I can’t quite place.
The stranger glances around behind us. He looks completely undomesticated. Wild. Dangerous. My heart skips a beat as the thought crosses my mind. I can’t help but compare him to a cornered animal. Perhaps the events he’s lived through haunt him and he sees us as a threat. I can read fear when I see it. And his eyes speak volumes.
“You need to get those wounds looked at.” Grandma’s voice is soft and soothing. Apparently, she also noticed the look of wariness in the man’s eyes.
Something about the way he stares at Grandma’s extended hand makes me think that kindness has not been offered often to him. In spite of his size, which is impressive, his expression resembles that of a small, distrusting child.
“No hospital.” He looks at me expectantly.
“No hospital.” I point to the house behind me. “Our house.”
He doesn’t appear too convinced. “No police?”
I think it best to tell him the police are on their way—just in case his victim role happens to be a lie—but Grandma intervenes before I can say a word.
“Come now, boy. There’s no police here. Just us.”
I toss a look of disbelief in Grandma’s direction, but she ignores me. With a slight dip of the head, the stranger accepts the hand offered to him and begins to slip out of the truck. One hand holds on to the chassis while the other grips Grandma’s small hand. He swings his bare feet out of the cab and plants them on the muddy ground. His entire frame—which I guess might be somewhere around six feet—shakes as he holds his weight up. He stands briefly, but lands on his knees as they give away.
“Help me, Kristina.” Grandma is quick to aid him. She pulls on his arm to try and get him on his feet, but the stranger is too big and heavy for her to manage alone.
I stand there for a moment, uneasy about the whole situation. Now that he’s at our house, I no longer think bringing him here was such a great idea. What if he murders us in our sleep?
“Well? Don’t just stand there, girl. Give me a hand!” Grandma yells, pulling me out of the stupor.
I reach down with my one free hand and pull on his left arm while Grandma pulls on his right. The stranger grunts, but makes no move to stand. He doesn’t even look like he’s awake anymore.
“He’s heavier than he looks,” Grandma grumbles.
“There’s no way we can carry him inside.” I glance down at the stranger, let go of his arm, and hold on to his chin, forcing his head to the left to face me. “We can’t take care of you out here. We need to get you inside but in order to do that, you need to help us out.”
His eyes open and look straight at me. Our gazes collide for a moment. I can see the exhaustion in those caramel orbs of his and deep inside me, I can’t help but sympathize with him. He looks like standing is too much of an effort, but it’s raining heavily and getting colder. If we leave him here, he’ll die for sure.
“Can you help us get you inside?” I plead.
He responds with a nod. The stranger makes an effort to stand. After three tries, he manages to hold his weight up with our help. I close the umbrella, drop it on the ground, and snake his arm around my shoulders. Grandma does the same. It is the only way we can keep him standing. Grandma leaves the shotgun behind too, as we have to practically drag him up the stairs.
“What room are we going to put him in?” I ask as we make it indoors.
“The guest bedroom by the basement door,” Grandma informs me.
We walk straight across the living room, to the right of the stairwell that leads to the second floor, and continue on to another small hallway. At the end of the tiny hall there are two wooden doors. One leads to the basement and the other to the spare bedroom.
I open the door to the bedroom and we walk him in.
“Let’s lay him on his stomach.” Grandma cocks her head to the right where the full-sized bed is.
The stranger glances around the room in confusion. His gaze takes in each and every item in the bedroom with open curiosity for a moment before diverting his gaze to the bed.
“Can you lie on your stomach?” I ask him.
He glances in my direction and asks, “Why?”
“We need to clean your wounds.”
He seems satisfied by my answer and removes his arms from around our necks. He stumbles to the mattress. I hope that he if he does fall he will land on the bed and not the floor. I don’t think Grandma and I can help him up a second time.
Thankfully, he makes it to the bed and breaks the fall by holding his hands in front of him as he goes down on the mattress. I watch him struggling to use those prominent muscles of his and wonder what could have been done to a man like him in order to make him as defenseless as a baby.
Gawking at him, I try to calculate the number of gashes on his skin. There’s at least eighteen, but because he crawls on to the bed he breaks my concentration and I lose count. “Lie right there in the middle,” Grandma says to him. To me she says, “Go fetch the shotgun and umbrella from outside.”
I hesitate. I’m not too comfortable about leaving her alone with a stranger so much taller and bulkier than she is. Grandma might be stronger, more resilient, and faster than most women her age but she’s no match for a young man of twenty-odd years who’s built like a linebacker.
“Get going. I’ll be fine,” she says as if reading my thoughts. “He’s in no condition to hurt anyone.”
I’m not too convinced but I run out to do as instructed anyway. I shut the door of the pickup while I’m at it. On my way in, I close and lock the front door, hang the raincoat on the stand to dry, and prop the umbrella against the wall. When I hear movement in the kitchen, I immediately rush down the hall to the right of the main entrance and into the room where Grandma Rose is getting the coffee maker going.
“Be a dear and fetch me the first-aid kit from upstairs. Bring plenty of gauze and bandages. And alcohol,” she says as soon as I walk in.
I place the shotgun on the counter and stroll over to her. “Don’t you think we should call the sheriff?”
Grandma opens a cabinet above the coffee maker and takes out two mugs. “The sheriff is not needed here,” she says, matter-of-factly.
“What do you mean? There’s a bleeding man in the guest bedroom.” I watch her rinse out the mugs before placing them on the counter next to the sink. “He’s been whipped, and God knows what else.”
“I am aware of his injuries.” Grandma turns to look at me. “But bringing in the sheriff will only lead whoever is after him right to this location.”
I blink. “How can you be sure he’s not dangerous?”
“Kristina, that boy needs help.” She straightens her shoulders. “We’re going to help him.”
I’m confused. I’m usually the one who’s unreasonable. Not Grandma. She always knows what the right thing to do is. I’m the one who messes things up—sometimes on purpose. Our roles have reversed dramatically in the last fifteen minutes.
“I get that, but I’m a little scared,” I confess without meaning to. “Even if he’s not dangerous, those injuries suggest whoever whipped him is not someone you or I want to cross.”
Grandma Rose reaches out and touches the side of my face. “Unless someone stops by for a visit, no one will know he’s here. Our closest neighbor is four miles away. And even if someone does come by, there are several undetectable and safe places to put him in.”
Why would we need undetectable places to hide in, in the first place? Our closest neighbor being four miles away doesn’t exactly make me feel any better.
“So you’re suggesting we hide him?”
Grandma shuffles closer toward the counter. “What else is there to do?”
“I can think of a million things.” My voice comes out louder than I intend. “I’m all up for helping the needy, but this seems to me like a life-and-death kind of thing. I think we should call the sheriff and have him transfer this man to the hospital where he’ll get better treatment.”
Grandma turns and busies herself with scrubbing the already spotless counter. It’s a nervous habit of hers. Even if there’s nothing to tidy up, she’ll find something so long as she doesn’t have to get into an argument.
“Bring me the supplies I asked for.” She sprays the counter with a cleaning solution and wipes it away with a rag. “Those injuries need to be taken care of before they get infected.”
My mouth hangs open. I’m beyond myself with apprehension, but she won’t have any of it. “Fine.” I rush out of the kitchen and run upstairs. I find everything she asked for in the medicine cabinet and after gathering the gauze, bandages, and alcohol, I hurry downstairs.
I find Grandma in the spare bedroom this time, sitting on the edge of the bed, next to the stranger.
“He’s unconscious,” she informs me as I walk in.
“He looks like he’s dead.” I notice the man’s paleness. It forces me to gulp involuntarily. He’s as white as a sheet of paper.
Grandma pats the mattress next to the man’s arm and says, “Put them right here.”
I place the supplies where she indicates. “Has he said anything else?”
“No. He was unconscious when I came in.” She opens the bottle of alcohol and dabs a large gauze pad until it’s wet.
“Won’t that burn?” I spare a glance at the stranger and something odd catches my attention. “What is that?” I point in shock.
Grandma glances behind her shoulder, but doesn’t appear surprised. “What?”
I walk around the bed to the other side, climb onto the mattress, and lean forward a bit to have a better view. “These.” I point to a tiny hole near his spinal cord. The hole is small, round, and appears to go in a little deep. “Can I have one of those?” I extend my arm and Grandma places the wet gauze on my palm. I wipe some of the blood off gently. Once it’s clear, I can make out what the tiny hole is. “Oh, my God!” I look up at Grandma. “He’s been shot!” I continue inspecting the rest of the man’s back and find two other bullet wounds, one on the same side as the hole near his spine but closer to his shoulder blade, the other right where his kidneys should be. “This man needs to be in a trauma room. Not here.”
Grandma dabs around the bullet holes with the gauze. “Are the bullets still inside?”
“Maybe.” I look, but can’t determine whether or not a bullet is lodged in his body. “I’m not sure.”
“Let me check.” Grandma busies herself with the bullet holes, looking, prodding, wiping off blood.
I hold my breath in anticipation. After inspecting each wound carefully Grandma says, “I don’t think there are any bullets in there.”
I feel a little faint. No bullets? Where the hell did they go? “How can you be sure?”
“I’m not, but I’m going to check it again once it’s clean. There’s blood in the hole so it’s hard to be sure of anything right now.”
“I really think we should call the authorities.” I’m fanning my face with my hand now. “This man is in worse condition than we thought.”
“Let me worry about that. Now go boil some water and bring me a brand-new bar of soap.”
I turn a concern-filled gaze to her. “What for?”
“I’m going to clean the area thoroughly to prevent infection.”
“Won’t he need stitches?” I don’t know anything about bullet wounds, but I’m assuming he needs something more than a little cleansing.
“Kristina.” Grandma looks at me. “Focus. Let me worry about the wounds. This isn’t my first time dealing with these kind of injuries.” Her statement takes me off guard. Not the first time? “Don’t dilly dally, girl. Get moving.”
My head starts to pound. Grandma Rose is acting so unlike herself and I’m sure it has something to do with the stranger, but I don’t see how one thing could be related to the other.
What if he dies in the spare bedroom? My God! He needs professional help.
“He’s been shot. He’s been whipped. And I think he’s been beaten, too. We need to call the cops.” When she doesn’t respond, I lose it. “That’s it...I’m calling the emergency line.” I scurry off the bed and hurry to the door with the intention of running into the living room where the phone is, but Grandma calls out to me.
“Kristina! Wait!” Her tone is commanding.
I squeeze my eyes shut. This is a lot to take in. I’m grateful Grandma is as calm as she is because one of us has to be in her right mind. I’m one step away from freaking out and she’s collected enough for the both of us.
After a moment, I spin around and find her dabbing at the cuts on the stranger’s wounds slowly, with care.
“Trust me on this.” She doesn’t look at me. “He’s fine. This man is much stronger than you give him credit for. He won’t die.”
Am I dreaming? Did I hit my head somewhere and I’m lying unconscious? Because this—everything seems so surreal. “Um, no offense Grandma, but last I knew you weren’t a doctor.”
Grandma Rose smiles. “No, but I know enough. Now go get me that water. I’m going to need it.”
I stare at her for a while before turning my attention to the sleeping stranger on the bed, wondering what tomorrow will bring. Something has definitely changed. I’m not sure what yet. Reluctant though I am, I walk away into the kitchen to boil the water.