I can't move my left arm. My fingers aren't numb but I can't move them. I'm not sure how long I've been sitting here on the floor. She comes through the door carrying a brown bag and sweating.
"It's about six bucks' worth," she says. "Is that enough?"
"It might be." I lie. I know it's not enough. I know I'm going to die and this won't make a difference.
"That's all they had. I couldn't get more. I tried. I couldn't." She's shaking hard and looking at me with fear pouring out of her eyes. "Is there somewhere else I can try?"
"No. It's too—there's not enough time. It's okay. You did good."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Stop apologizing. I need you to help me. Can you do that?" I reach my hand into my back-right pocket and pull out my old and tattered wallet.
"Yeah—okay. What do you want me to do?"
"Take out a credit card." I pass her the wallet and she takes out my Amex. "Bend it back and forth until you can snap it. I need an edge." She's confused for a moment but then starts bending. Back and forth, back and forth. The card's turning white at the bend.
I take the bag she gave me and dump the six bucks' worth of gauze on the floor next to me. This isn't even worth trying. If she weren't here, I'd just lie back and let it happen. But I can't. I want her to feel like we tried. Like she helped when it mattered most.
She finally snaps the card, producing two new pieces with sharp edges. I take one and set it on the floor next to the gauze. There's a lot of blood now. It's pooling under me and it has stained everything. I'd need ten times the amount of gauze she got just to clean up the mess, and that doesn't help stop the bleeding itself.
"You're not going to want to look at this, but I need your help so face away and give me your right hand," I say, and she does, reluctantly.
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to get it out."
"Oh God. Oh—"
"You have to keep calm and you have to help me. Close your eyes and count to ten. When you're done, you have to push. Hard. And keep the pressure constant. Okay?"
"Okay."
I bend the piece of credit card I have, curling the end a bit. I place it in her hand and guide her so the tip of the card is near the entrance wound. I take a piece of gauze and soak up the fresh blood to try to clear the field. It's too messy. This is a waste of time.
"Are you ready?" I ask.
"Yeah. I'm ready." Now she's lying.
"Okay, push." I guide her as she pushes the tip of the card into the wound, deep. One inch in. Then two. It doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts anymore.
"Oh Jesus," she whimpers.
"Keep steady." She's about two and a half inches in when I feel her hit the slug. I stop her from going deeper but she keeps constant pressure on. While she pushes I turn her hand. If I'm lucky, I get around the slug and we get it out. If I'm unlucky, this doesn't work and I die with her hand inside me.
Luckily, the slug moves a small amount and the card slips behind it. I quickly stick my free index finger in and start digging. It doesn't take very long before I free the slug and her hand and feel pressure pour out of my chest, taking with it what feels like a pint of fresh blood.
I hand her the slug. She's never seen one up close before. I can tell, because she looks at it with horror and fascination. It's dented and flattened from smashing into my ribs and she turns it over in her hand before looking at my face, which is now whiter than before.
"How do you feel?" she asks.
Like shit. "Like a million bucks. How about you?"
"I'm okay." She's about to cry. I see it coming. I've got about forty seconds and I'm gone and I don't have time to console her or convince her it's going to be okay. It's not. I'm going to leave and I'm never coming back and she's going to have to live with it.
"Thanks for your help. I feel better now. I just need one more favor. Can you go out front and see if the paramedics are here yet?"
"I don't want to leave—"
"I'll be fine. Just see if they're here."
"Okay. I'll be right back." She gets up and puts the slug on my desk. She looks at me wholly convinced that when she returns I'll be here, alive, bleeding on the floor. But she'll never see me again. I'll wake up in Texas or in Wisconsin or maybe in LA, and she'll find Tim Kirkland dead on the floor of his office.
She'll cry and she'll mourn and she'll talk about this day for the rest of her life. But I won't remember her at all. She's just one of thousands of people who have watched me die over the past fifteen years. Tomorrow there will be another.
At least it doesn't hurt anymore.