11

It wasn’t the harsh light of the sun that stirred Minho out of his slumber–if the state he was in could even be considered sleep–nor the cool, damp towel being pressed against his forehead, or the rich, honey-sweet spiritual being sung in a low lullaby whisper. It was his stomach revolting against him, purging up something sickly and foul. He leaned over the side of the cot and violently emptied out his insides into a dented tin wash bucket. The woman seated at his bedside his back as he vomited, but she never stilled that soothing song for an instant. She helped ease him back into the cot when the heaving finally subsided, and wiped the corners of his mouth with that wet rag.

“An–Annie?” Minho rasped, his throat raw. He swallowed roughly, taking in her bronze skin, her dark hair piled intricately on top of her head. 

She sent him a smile that was as calming as her song and answered, “Hey, sweetpea. How long are you planning on sticking around this time?”

“Wh–what?” answered Minho. His lips stuck together, chapped and parched. His skin was clammy with sweat, and he caught a whiff of a foul odor he was ashamed to realize was himself. “Where am I? What happened?”

“You’re back with your people. You almost left us, sweetie. You caught a bullet that tried to rob you of this world. Luckily, it didn’t get infected, but it’s still a nasty wound. You’ve been in and out of it for days, asking these same questions, greeting me like you haven’t seen me in a long time.”

Minho blinked, trying to sift through the muddy waters of his brain to find any memory of the time he’d lost since Frenchtown. He came up empty in his search.

“You brought along an interesting friend,” Annie remarked, pointing with her chin to the other side of Minho. “You owe him money or something? He’s been stuck to your side like a burr since y’all stumbled into camp on that poor horse.”

Minho grimaced at his stiff neck fighting him as he turned his head to face what Annie was gesturing at. Beside him, on a cot pulled flush up against his own, was a dozing Taemin. He was in a similar state to Minho, covered in a thin veneer of grime and blood. His hair was greasy and matted against his forehead, and his clothes were the same as the ones Minho bought him in Frenchtown, though very clearly unwashed. Minho followed one dirty sleeve down to where Taemin’s hand held a death-grip on his own. It was so tight that Minho hadn’t even realized they were touching–Taemin was probably choking the blood and feeling out of his fingers.

“What’s his deal?” continued Annie. “None of us could understand him save Kibum, and he couldn’t manage to get him to talk much either, and you know Kibum–the man could charm a king out of his crown. Speaking of, he wanted to be told when you woke. Are you feeling woozy at all? Don’t make me go fetch him if you’re just gonna pass out again.”

“He's a, uh, a friend, I suppose. And I–I think I can keep my eyes open that long, just because you asked so politely,” Minho said, attempting a smile. Annie returned it, and when she stood from her stool to leave, Minho caught her weakly at the wrist with his free hand. “Thank you, Annie,” he said with all the sincerity he could muster. “I mean it.”

“You can thank me by not dying after all the work we've put into keeping you alive,” she said, covering his hand with her own. “You’re not out of the woods yet, sweetpea. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

Without her presence as a distraction, Minho began to feel the agony of his injury. He turned his body towards Taemin to lie on his side, and groaned as his muscles fought against him, pulling and tugging at his sore wound. He pressed his hand to his back, trying to feel exactly where he was shot, but his midsection was thoroughly swaddled in layer upon layer of bandages. Still, the skin was tender under his touch, and he grimaced in pain when one misplaced poke sent shockwaves of pain through his body. His eyes welled with tears, his head spun, and his stomach threatened to empty itself once more. His fingers clenched around Taemin's hand, and he coached himself through short shaky breaths as his senses teased at abandoning him again. 

He turned towards Taemin's slumbering form, trying to focus on anything other than the lightning storm of pain currently shocking its way through his system. His face was gaunt, and his eyes rimmed with the shadow of tiredness. His hair stuck in every direction, and sections of it were in matted chunks. It was dried blood, Minho would later realize, his own dried blood, but the weakened daze of his injury left him unable to process that