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Quint’s wild eyes lock on to mine.
“You’re okay, man,” I say, placing his hand on his chest, but from this close, I can see that he is definitely not fucking okay.
His skin is hot to the touch and covered in beads of sweat. His lips are chapped and pale. His shirt is soaked. And a trickle of blood is seeping from the bandage with every panicked pulse of his jugular.
Quint opens his mouth to try to ask me something but winces again as the glass shifts from the motion.
I glance at Lamar and debate whether or not to wake him up, but the kid has been on twenty-four-hour watch since we got here and could use the fucking shut-eye.
“Don’t try to talk, okay? You were in an accident. We couldn’t get you back to Franklin Springs, so we brought you to Pritchard Park Mall. You’re in the old Savvi Formalwear right now. That’s pretty boss, right?”
Quint tries to smile but cringes and bites his bottom lip from the pain.
Shit.
“You took some glass to the neck, man, but Rain’s got you patched up. She’ll be by to check on you in a few, okay?”
Quint grabs my wrist and looks at me with eyes the color of my cold, dead heart.
“Am I …” he whispers, pausing to suck in a breath and grimace from the pain.
“Hell no,” I lie. “Don’t even say it. You’re gonna be fine.”
Quint squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth as his face crumples. A high-pitched keening sound comes from somewhere deep inside his body, and I can’t fucking take it anymore.
“You’re gonna be okay,” I say more forcefully, but I don’t know who I’m trying to convince—myself or Quint. “You want some water? I’m gonna get you some water.”
I stand up and grab the empty bottles on my way out the door.
Fuck.
This.
Place.
I have to concentrate on not crushing the plastic bottles in my fists as I stomp toward the food court.
Fuck.
These.
People.
A fat-ass toad jumps from the edge of the fountain into the murky, mucous-like water inside as I pass.
Supplies.
Shelter.
Self-defense.
I kick a broken tile.
I’m getting this motherfucker some water.
Then, I’m getting the fuck out of here.
The second I walk into the food court, I set my sights on the bitch at the back table. Q. She and the rest of her minions are still celebrating the end of civilization. A few tattooed misfits with random parts of their heads shaved are playing cards and taking shots from a bottle of bottom-shelf tequila. A beanpole in a jean jacket with the sleeves cut off is playing a goddamn accordion while a burly, bearded guy in a pair of unwashed overalls strums along on the banjo. A few crusty teens are gathered around a cell phone, elbowing each other like they’re watching porn, and Q is kicked back in a plastic chair, smoking a joint, with a busted pair of black motorcycle boots propped up on the table and her black men’s pants cut off at the knees.
