Iâve been shot.
And, as it turns out, a bullet wound is even more uncomfortable than I had imagined.
My skin is cold and clammy; Iâm making a herculean effort to breathe. Torture is roaring through my right arm and making it difficult for me to focus. I have to squeeze my eyes shut, grit my teeth, and force myself to pay attention.
The chaos is unbearable.
Several people are shouting and too many of them are touching me, and I want their hands surgically removed. They keep shouting âSir!â as if theyâre still waiting for me to give them orders, as if they have no idea what to do without my instruction. The realization exhausts me.
âSir, can you hear me?â Another cry. But this time, a voice I donât detest.
âSir, please, can you hear meââ
âIâve been shot, Delalieu,â I manage to say. I open my eyes. Look into his watery ones. âI havenât gone deaf.â
All at once the noise disappears. The soldiers shut up. Delalieu looks at me. Worried.
I sigh.
âTake me back,â I tell him, shifting, just a little. The world tilts and steadies all at once. âAlert the medics and have my bed prepared for our arrival. In the meantime, elevate my arm and continue applying direct pressure to the wound. The bullet has broken or fractured something, and this will require surgery.â
Delalieu says nothing for just a moment too long.
âGood to see youâre all right, sir.â His voice is a nervous, shaky thing. âGood to see youâre all right.â
âThat was an order, Lieutenant.â
âOf course,â he says quickly, head bowed. âCertainly, sir. How should I direct the soldiers?â
âFind her,â I tell him. Itâs getting harder for me to speak. I take a small breath and run a shaky hand across my forehead. Iâm sweating in an excessive way that isnât lost on me.
âYes, sir.â He moves to help me up, but I grab his arm.
âOne last thing.â
âSir?â
âKent,â I say, my voice uneven now. âMake sure they keep him alive for me.â
Delalieu looks up, his eyes wide. âPrivate Adam Kent, sir?â
âYes.â I hold his gaze. âI want to deal with him myself.â