When they return, they throw the supplies onto the table; a bottle of antibiotics, a few painkillers, and a roll of bandages. Not much, but it'll do.
I mutter a quick thanks, grab what I need, and get to work.
I clean the wound carefully, wiping away the excess blood, ignoring how it sticks to my fingers, and how I can still taste it in the air.
I clean the wound as best as I can, trying to focus on the task and not the hunger gnawing at my insides. When I press a cloth soaked in antiseptic against the gash, he groans, twitching.
"He's not infected," I announce, mostly to shut down any more arguments.
The girls both exhale in unison, tension easing slightly from their shoulders.
Then, right behind me…
"You are such a reckless idiot, Bea!"
"Oh, I'm the idiot? You're the one who opened the damn door, Yara!"
Ah. So they have names.
Bea, the one with the gun, and Yara, the taller one, immediately begin a heated argument.
