FUNNY THING ABOUT PAIN, fear can stay it for a bit. When fear turns out not to be enough of an opiate, embarrassment works. Would’ve called anyone who told me that a liar before today. My shoulder’s screaming, but I’m so god damned doped on embarrassment that I keep that shit shoved way down.

In this situation, there’s no good reason at all for me to feel the way I do. I didn’t shoot myself, but if I hadn’t wandered to the bounds of the property, where the wards, or whatever, are weak, no one would’ve been able to hit me in the first place. Insult to… yeah, Micah shows up, and I think the worst. It’s why I avoided him after being the one to ask for his number. Photojournalism major. No shit, self. Now, he’s playing my personal hero after giving up his over clothes while staving off a gusher that my sister gave him. And, and, and… this freaking sucks!

I groan into my chest, and Micah halts.

“Are you alright? Do we need to readjust?”

I take a minute to catch my breath. We’re almost back. A few hundred feet and we’ll clear the tree line. Kay’s gone ahead to change back and put some clothes on.

“I’m…as good as I’m gonna get right now.”

Crusted blood and sweat streak Micah’s face. The eye closest to his cut temple nearly mashes shut from the swelling. He doesn’t look at me with guilt or with his own pain. He’s only concerned. For the thousandth time on this walk, I wonder why.

“I really need to know something,” I say as we restart our hobble.

“What?”

“You’ve known since we swapped numbers what I am, who I am, and I know exactly the same things about you. So—”

“Wes,” he breaths my name with such force that I nearly trip. He steadies me but doesn’t stop what he wants to get out. “Until ten months ago, I knew jack about…any of this. Hunters, powers, whatever blood feud there is between Ansley and Janison. Nothing. Nada. Went eighteen years in the real world, then I got thrown into the Upside Down. Honestly, I don’t know much more than the basics. The only thing I’m sure of is that I don’t want to be part of any redneck, Hatfield and McCoy shit.”

He comes up for air as we hit the open clearing leading up to my house.

“Damn…it’s even nicer in person.”

“Huh?” I swivel my eyes between him and his gaze up at the house. I can’t tell if he’s blushing, winded, or it’s just all the dried blood.

“Uh, sorry, I sort of creeped on your Insta,” he mumbles, leading us forward.

The non-sequitur throws me. “Oh, well it’s not private or anything.” His face has gone all scrunchy, and it hits me. “Ohhh, you saw me and—”

“Yeah,” he blurts, “no, I saw, I mean. It’s cool. I just didn’t want to…” His words die on the wind.

There’s no time to try explaining, if I even could, before the back door blows off from the tsunami of Mom, Dad, and of course, Kay.

∞ ∞ ∞

My parents usher us all into the kitchen. Mom’s a doctor. Back in Austin, she worked the ER, so she does trauma like a boss. Though, this is a bit more than one of our average boo-boos. But if that bothers her, she’s not showing it.

Micah shuffles to the far side of the table after Mom directs his deposit of me into a chair. Kay champs at the bit to tear him a new one, as if she hasn’t done enough already. She wants to send him traipsing back into the forest. Mom and Dad shut that down quick like.

“If whoever did this is still out there and saw him help Wes,” Dad bores a hole in Kay, “unfortunately, accidents happen, and we will not be a party to them.” She drops any voiced arguments after that. Doesn’t stop her death stare.

From her trauma bag, Mom produces two unlabeled bottles of something clear. She plunks one on the table but uncaps the other and turns to me. “Drink it all.”

Off my feet, the adrenaline flees, leaving me confused enough not to realize what’s in front of my face. “Peroxide?” I ask warily.

Mom lightly runs her hands through my hair like when I was a little kid. “Not peroxide, honey, it’s—” Her words halt long enough for me to notice the light emphasis she places on the next. “Only water.” She guides my working hand to one of the bottles and helps me drink.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Dad shifts his weight from one foot to the other, awaiting orders. Kay continues to scowl from her perch by the sink. Mom’s process has either hypnotized Micah, or his system’s crashing like mine. His eyes are just short of a vacant lot.

Mom finishes laying out her kit and bathing my wounds in antiseptic. She glances at Micah and snaps her fingers, pointing to the chair he’s currently using as a crutch. “Sit. You’re about thirty seconds away from passing out if don’t.”

His neck jerks, and his face loses some its stupor. “Yes, ma’am,” he pronounces blearily and pours slowly into the chair.

“How is he?” Dad moves himself closer.

After assuring him that nothing vital is hit, she explains that she needs to numb the area before— Pushing. It. Out. I grimace at the thought. She explains the process to me as she injects a dozen different spots around my shoulder with lidocaine. As promised, it hurts.

Worry deflates Dad a bit, but he’s angry, too. “Where were you?” His eyes target mine.

I swallow the lump in my throat and lie, “This side of the ridge.”

Kay throws some major shade from behind Dad, but she doesn’t have any proof. I was on this side of the ridge by the time she showed up. Only Micah could contradict me, and from the stricken look on his face, I doubt it.

“No Hunter should not have been able to hit you.” His voice goes dangerously calm.

Kay makes a triumphant noise. Dad turns and gives her a glare that could melt steel. I shrug, which sends a wince through me. Mom squeezes the other shoulder. “Hold still. And, Andrew, this can wait.” Her eyes prick him as sharply as the needle in her hand.

Never one to know when enough is enough, I just have to add. “If Micah weren’t there… whoever it was might’ve finished the job.” Mom and Dad share twin grimaces. Kay narrows her eyes.

A dull click punctuates the end of my explanation as the arrow’s fletching is cut free. Mom and Dad do that unspoken parent telepathy thing.

Kays cork finally pops. “C’mon, he was right up on you when I got there. No Hunters. Now, poof, one appears two days after you meet him in the coffee shop?”

See if I tell you anything again, Kay. I launch the telepathic dagger.

“He gave me his clothes and carried me home.” I say with as much heat as possible. Though I’m not entirely sure why I’m defending him. Not like I really know the guy at all. But I’ve got a pretty good BS meter, and Hunters don’t react like he did. Even if technically… maybe… he is one? We didn’t go into a lot of detail with Mom and Dad, so unanswered questions are thick enough to breathe right now.

“Enough,” Mom commands without leaving her study of the arrow. She directs Dad behind me. He scrutinizes Kay with the intensity of a physics exam, while he gets into position to hold me down for the worst part.

“Wes, open your mouth.” Mom’s order snaps my attention away from glaring at Kay.

“Huh?” I open my mouth. She inserts a roll of gauze between my teeth, explaining that I don’t need to bite my tongue off, yet.

She stands in front of me and nods. After a countdown from three, fireworks explode in front of my eyes. Red and yellow light pops. As quickly as the liquid pain comes, it goes. In its place, a peaceful cold. I pry my eyes back open to find Dad bathing the fresh hole in my shoulder with the second bottle of water, while Mom prepares to begin stitches.

A retching draws my attention across the room. Kay doubles over the galley sink, heaving chunks. At first, I think it serves her right but immediately feel guilty.

I’ve been giving her shit, but I put Kay in a bad position. Logically, she’s only watching out for me. It’s how both of us are wired. Threaten one, you get an ass-load of the other. Once this settles down, I’ll have to catch her and apologize in private.

“Okay, just need to close up the back.” Mom finishes stitching my front.

Dad switches her places. “How’re you feeling?”

I squint at him, and an involuntary giggle catches me off guard. “Sorry. There’s nothing funny. I’m… actually pretty good.”

He laughs, too and appears to breathe for the first time in a while. He toys with one of the empty bottles on the table.

“It’s like after they pulled my wisdom teeth.” Me whining about Raising Cane’s needing an ice cream menu and making up slurred limericks about chicken went viral.

Dad grins, and Mom chuckles behind me.

“Jeez Wes, it’s the cistern’s—”

“Kay!” Dad’s extremely uncharacteristic shout leaves the room ringing.

“Dad, it’s okay. I’m—”

Mom quiets me with a gentle shake of her head. I don’t get the big deal here. Apparently, Kay doesn’t either. Slapping her sideways might not have left her with the blood rising in her face.

Kay snorts and shoves herself away from the counter. “Whatever. The golden child is safe now. You’re welcome.” Her words fly back to us, as she storms from the room and crashes up the stairs.

We all, Micah included, stare at the invisible wake, too stunned for a response. Dad sighs and pads out behind her.

With all my insides sewed back together, Mom gives me an antibiotic. She instructs me to stay seated for a few minutes while she attends to Micah. After swinging by the fridge to grab a generic bottle of water, she slides the kit in front of him. Though she looks over the wound, she stops short of beginning to work. Instead, she takes his hands in hers.

“Your Patricia’s son…aren’t you?”

Micah flinches as if she’s flicked him between the eyes. “Y-you know my mom?”

Mom doesn’t look away, but she speaks so softly it’s hard to make out. “I did. A long time ago. She—”

“Yeah,” Micah knifes in, not coldly but seeming to cushion himself from another blow. “I know.”

Mom nods and applies some peroxide to a gauze pad. She begins to apply the treatment but pulls back again. “Micah, I don’t know why you helped our son. And,” she talks over his attempt to speak, “I don’t care. Wes is right. You probably saved his life, so thank you.”

He accepts the thanks with a quiet mumble. Mom washes his face free of the grime and treats his wounds as tenderly as mine. Four stitches, a bottle of regular water, and a promise to take him around to his abandoned truck later, he only looks worn out instead of like a collapsing house.

Mom packs up the medical supplies and goes in search of Dad to help me upstairs.

Maybe it’s the cistern’s water or exhaustion or some weird sort of gratitude, but I stretch my hand across the table toward him. He doesn’t hold it but lets his own out enough that the tips of our fingers cross and rest comfortably against each other.