Page 19 of Outsider

Adam sets his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Ah … we probably ought to go break ice for the cattle.”

“And check on Suzy to see if she had her calf,” Sammy adds, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Gina.

I make eye contact with Adam. “Thank you.”

Giving us a final nod, the Amish man guides his son from the room. I close the door behind them, fold my arms at my chest, and lean against it. From her place on the cot, Gina watches as Joe opens the medical bag and sets a roll of wrapped gauze, a large plastic syringe, and a bottle of Betadine solution on a small tray.

“Have you ever treated a gunshot wound?” she asks.

Joe continues his work, disinfecting his hands and pulling on a pair of disposable gloves. “Two years ago, one of Mark Miller’s buggy horses was shot in the withers. An accident, you know. A stray bullet from a hunter, probably. It was deer season.”

“The horse survived?” she asks.

“No,” he says, deadpan.

At her stricken expression, Joe glances at me over his shoulder and grins. “The horse was fine. Got him out of work for a few weeks.”

I’ve always had an appreciation for Amish humor and I smile back at him.

“How are you feeling overall?” he asks Gina.

Her gaze flicks to mine. “Is that a serious question?”

A hint of a smile whispers across his features. “Any sweating? Sensations of heat? Throbbing at the site of the wound?”

“Some throbbing,” she responds. “It’s getting worse. No heat.”

Joe finishes readying his tools, uncaps a digital thermometer, slides a cover onto the tip, and passes it to Gina. “Under your tongue. No speaking for twenty seconds.”

Frowning as if she’s not quite sure if he’s messing with her, she eyes the thermometer, then does as she’s told.

When the thermometer beeps, Gina removes it from her mouth and hands it to Joe. He squints at the reading. “No fever. That’s a good sign.” He tips his head at me and clears his throat.

Realizing he’s not comfortable asking her to remove her shirt, I leave my place at the door and go to Gina. “You’re going to have to slip that shirt off your shoulder.”

“Right.” Using her uninjured arm, she sets to work unbuttoning her shirt.

Seeing that she’s having difficulty, I go to her, kneel next to the cot. I finish the last of the buttons. She’s wearing a turtleneck beneath the flannel shirt, so I roll it up at the hem and stretch it out at the armpit. Wincing in pain, she maneuvers her arm out of the sleeve.

“Schmatze,” Joe murmurs, which is Deitsh for “be in pain.”

“Miah sinn glikk see is net yoosa fluch-vadda,” I say. We’re lucky she’s not cursing.

“Net alsnoch,” he says. Not yet.

“I can’t defend myself unless you insult me in English,” Gina grumbles as the damaged flesh looms into view.

Gunshot wounds are hideous things. I’ve seen several in the years I’ve been a cop, both accidental and intentional, inflicted by everything from a .22 to a shotgun. I’ve suffered a gunshot wound myself. Though mine wasn’t life-threatening and I received prompt medical care, it was a traumatic experience, not just physically but psychologically.

Like most cops, I’m an emergency medical technician. I’ve read enough to know that the main elements that affect tissue damage are caliber, velocity, and distance. Luck, of course, has a lot to do with it, too. Noting the location of this particular wound—which is an inch or so into the muscular part of her shoulder—I suspect Gina is one of the luckiest people walking around.

The wound itself is about the size of a pencil eraser and round in shape. The surrounding flesh is the color of eggplant, swollen, and covered with dried blood.

“If you could lower that.” Joe indicates her bloodstained bra strap.

I slide the narrow strip of lace off her shoulder.

“Glad I wore my good bra,” Gina murmurs.