If you asked me whether I liked the indoors or the outdoors, I'd probably say that this is a stupid question and that people should go outside more... I'm a couch potato. Back then, Mom wanted me to be her little soldier. She signed me up to join the local bootcamp. She looked so happy to see me in that khaki uniform, which she'd always help me put on. But, I was a terrible scout. I wasn't built for the outdoors.

It's funny. I never thought that fifteen years later, I'd use something from their textbook.

Right in front of me lay an injured man. His leg was bleeding profusely as his face pressed into the snow. The first thing we did was roll him onto his back.

I took my handkerchief out and wrapped it around the man's limp leg. His blood soaked through the fabric in an instant, but I made sure to tie it as tight as I could. The cold air made it hard to focus. Thoughts of frostbite filled my mind, as my fingers grew numb. The man was groaning and breathing slowly.

He yelped when I pulled on the tourniquet and whimpered.

Amy was pacing nervously around me, as I heard the sound of her boots crunching against the snow. She crouched to check the man out a few times, then she stood by the roadside, her back against the hood of her car.

I glanced at her. Amy stood still. She was staring at me, an unreadable expression on her face.

Was she mulling over something?

Stupid question. I had to act fast.

"Hey, Amy!" I barked. My voice came out sharper than I intended.

Amy raised an eyebrow, "What do you want, Louis?"

"Come over here! We need to haul him over to the car."

“And why do we have to?” She spat on the ground. “It’s my car, and you want to take him to our home.”

“Amy, please.” I stood up. “I don’t want to feel responsible for letting a man die. It’s not right.”

When I spat that sentence out, something must’ve switched inside her. She began walking towards me, and I felt goosebumps under my thick clothes. She stared directly into my eyes, towering over me despite being a bit shorter than me. Then, she grabbed onto my cheeks and pinched them, bringing my face close to her level.

“I don’t trust him.” She bluntly said.

At a loss for words, I mumbled something back.

"But we need to put him in the car. He'll freeze!"

"Figure it out."

She walked away back to where she was standing.

She’s…

I shook my head.

I returned to the injured man. I hadn't inspected him properly, but he had a deathly feeling to him. His breathing was heavy, yes, but there was a high-pitched sound to it. A whistle. His face was clean-shaven, save for the caterpillar above his lips. If you ignored the black bruise by his eye, he looked like someone's uncle.

I first thought that he was some hunter who got into an accident. But, he wasn't a regular hunter. His clothes were far too bulky for a regular hunter to wear. Plus, it wasn't even open season.

Come to think of it, was that his car we saw?

"Kid..." The man started coughing. "Where's your friend going?"

"She's not a friend, she's my sister." I replied automatically, still trying to piece things together.

His rugged, gaunt face tightened.

"Did anyone follow you?" He wheezed.

"...No? Why are you asking?"

"So, you didn't see a biker gang?"

I froze for a moment. There was only one biker gang in St. Woods. "Don't tell me you messed with the Woodpeckers."

"Woodpeckers?" He turned his head in confusion.

"So that's why they were wearing that stupid shit on their back…"

"Huh?"

"D-don't worry about it." His voice turned low, almost a mutter. He spat some blood out. "When those headlights were coming towards me. I thought for a second they were coming for me."

"Why would they?"

He didn’t answer right away, his head lolling back as if the effort to speak was too much.

I frowned.

"Well, they do keep to themselves. Most of the time..."

“They don’t keep to themselves. They shot me at the gas station.”

The sound of a thud broke through the cold win, followed by hurried footsteps crunching in the snow. The thud came from the car. I turned to see Amy sprinting back, her face flushed red from the cold. She was holding a bottle of wine.

"I'm back."

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

"Wine, Amy?" I said, raising an eyebrow. "This is not the time to drink!"

"It's all we've got, so suck it up," she shot back, uncorking the bottle with a quick twist.

"Besides. It's not for drinking. It's for his leg."

I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could say anything, she poured the alcohol directly onto the man’s wound.

He let out a strangled cry, his body arching off the ground as if he’d been electrocuted.

"Amy!" I snapped, my voice sharp.

"What?" she said, glaring at me. "We don’t have a med kit, so this is the next best thing."

- BREAK -

We moved to help the man up. Amy followed my word and moved to support me as I took the man. Her face was pale. The smell of cheap wine filled the air. He groaned with each step we took — a wet, but strained hiss of pain. Blood smeared all over the seats behind the front. I saw Amy wince at the sight.

Once he was secured in the back seat, I glanced at Amy. Her hands were trembling as she gripped the wheel, but she didn’t hesitate.

“This car’s going to reek,” Amy muttered, brushing snow off her jacket as she climbed into the driver’s seat. I followed soon after, taking the other front seat.

I snuck a glimpse or two at the man, he was pretty pale and quite blue. His head was lolling against the window. I didn’t quite know what to think. But, I did a good deed today. Yeah, I did good, didn't I?

“Thank you,” He whispered, his voice cracked and weak. “Thank you… Argh.”

“Yeah.” I said.

I took one more glimpse — he was knocked out cold.

We drove in silence, the hum of the engine filling the space until Amy, restless, reached for the radio. “I can’t stand the snoring,” she muttered, twisting the dial.

The crackle of static gave way to a man’s voice. He cleared his throat, the sound sharp and deliberate.

“Good evening, residents of St. Woods,” he began, his tone steady but weighted. “Breaking news just in.”

“Reports from the Youngstown Police Department have confirmed the identity of a suspect involved in the robbery of the local BassBank last Wednesday. His name is Eugene Miller, a 50-year old man from Penn City.”

He paused for a moment. Then, he continued. He recounted the events of the robbery, at least what they managed to uncover so far. Apparently, it was a gruesome .

“Miller, Davids and a yet to be identified suspect are currently being investigated by the Burea—”

The static crackled as Amy twisted the dial, cutting him off mid-sentence.

"Hey!" I cried out, "We were just about to see their faces."

"You can't see faces through a radio, dipshit."

Ouch.

Then, she took a quick glance at the rear view mirror. The man was knocked out. Amy narrowed her eyes, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“You think that this guy is a bank robber?” I exclaimed. "We don't know what the suspects look like."

“Isn’t it obvious?” she said, her voice low. “He’s badly wounded. And if he’s Eugene Miller…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

I glanced at the unconscious man. “Besides, St. Woods is in the middle of nowhere. We shouldn't worry about whether or not some criminal came.”

“That’s not the question you should be asking, you stupid asshole!” Amy snapped, her voice thundered. “We just made ourselves criminals! I heard your conversation with him! You’ve heard about what happens when you attack them.”

I felt my skin flush. "So, what! Everyone knows that the Woodpeckers are crazy people."

“Then what are we going to do if we get arrested? What’s gonna happen to the orphanage?” She barked, staring directly towards my eyes.

Her words hit me like a slap. The orphanage. She always knew the perfect way to knock me off balance. My throat tightened, but before I could respond, the car jolted suddenly.

"Louis!" Amy yelped as she yanked the wheels to the left, the car skidding briefly on the road.

“Don’t distract the damn driver!” She shot me a glare, her knuckles white against the steering wheel. For good measure, she raised her fist in mock threat.

"Wait, WAIT! I’m sorry!” I threw my hands up in surrender, my voice climbing over the hum of the engine. “Let’s calm down for a moment. Please.”

Amy's breaths came sharp and uneven, fogging the air in front of her face. She gritted her teeth, exhaling forcefully before taking a deliberate inhale. Then another.

Finally, she muttered, “Any ideas on what to do if he’s… if he’s a criminal?”

The words hung heavy in the air, slicing through the low static of the radio.

"He's injured, Amy," I said softly, but my voice sounded as unconvincing to me as it probably did to her. "Maybe he’s just some guy who… got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Or maybe he’s some guy who’s going to screw us over the moment he’s not bleeding out.” She cut her eyes at me for half a second before returning them to the road.

I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. The man's pained breathing from the backseat filled the silence.

“Amy… we can't just leave him. Criminal or not. It's—”

“Not right. Yeah, I know,” she interrupted, her voice taut.

Her words hit harder than I wanted to admit. She had a point, didn’t she? My chest felt tight as I leaned back in my seat.

“I don’t know,” I finally admitted. My voice was small. Helpless. “But… if we don’t help him, and he dies—”

“Then that’s on us,” she finished, a bitter edge in her tone. Her hands flexed on the wheel as if she was trying to massage the tension out of her fingers.

I glanced at the man in the backseat. His head was still lolling against the window, his breaths shallow and uneven. But his position seemed to have shifted slightly. I shook my head, I must be tired.

“Then we’re not turning him in,” I said firmly. “Let’s just take him to someone that can help him.”

The words were barely out of my mouth when a sharp click cut through the air.

My heart stopped.

"Keep driving."

From the backseat, the man’s hand trembled as he pointed a gun right behind the headrest. His eyes were half-lidded, his face pale, but his voice was cold and steady.

The words felt like they’d hit me harder than the barrel of the gun. My hands clenched into fists on my lap, trying to stop them from trembling.

"...What," I croaked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Drive,” he said again, his voice calm, almost casual. “To your home.”

I shuddered, the weight of the gun’s barrel practically burning through the air between us. Amy’s grip on the wheel tightened, her knuckles turning white. She was staring straight ahead, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

“Why?” I managed to ask, though every part of me screamed to stay silent.

His lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Won’t shoot you if you do. Won’t rob you when we get there. I just want you to keep me away.”

“From who?” Amy snapped, her voice cracking.

The man didn’t answer immediately. He closed his eyes for a moment, his head leaning back against the window like he didn’t have the energy to keep it upright. The gun wavered slightly in his hand, but his grip stayed firm.

“Just drive,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost pleading.

And then, his body slumped forward.

The gun slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a sharp thud.

My heart jumped, my chest tightening as though the air had been sucked out of the car. For a long moment, Amy and I just stared at each other, the hum of the engine and his ragged breathing the only sounds breaking the silence.

“Don’t just sit there!” Amy hissed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Get rid of it!”

Not wanting to take any more chances with this rogue agent—or whatever he was—I leaned over, my hand trembling as I snatched the gun from the floor.

“Put it in the glovebox,” Amy said, her voice low but urgent. Her hands gripped the wheel tightly, her knuckles pale as she kept her eyes on the road.

I hesitated, the weight of the gun heavier than I’d expected. It felt wrong in my hands, cold and alien. Swallowing hard, I nodded and shoved it into the glovebox, slamming it shut.

Amy exhaled sharply, her breath fogging the air. “Okay. Now what?”

I glanced at the unconscious man in the backseat. His head lolled against the window, his breathing shallow. The bloodstains on his clothes seemed darker now, spreading like ink in water.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice unsteady. “But I don’t think this is over.”

“Let’s go home.”

Home sounded safe, but nothing about this night felt safe anymore.