Maybe Ihave.
“You can either help me, or I’ll do it myself,” I tell him flatly. “But things will go a lot smoother if youhelp.”
“You— this— You can’t possibly beserious.”
“As a heart attack.” I glance around for the supply pack. At the bottom, I find the hunting knife. It’s not exactly a Japanese steel chef blade, but it should be sharp enough to get the job done. I walk to the fire and embed it in the hot embers, careful not to singe my fingertips. My eyes scan the ground until I spot Beck’s duffle. When I reach it, I lean down and begin digging through the contents without waiting forpermission.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snaps, racing to my side and snatching it from mygrip.
“The flask. Where isit?”
His eyes narrow. His hands are fisted so tight in the green canvas, his knuckles have gone white. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I recognize this as a fear reaction. He’s afraid… ofme. Of what I plan to do. Perhaps that’s what I should be feeling, too — fear. The prospect of cutting off a limb should scare me. Instead, all I feel is grim resolve. It’s stolen over my senses, gripped me with unshakeable fingers until I’m filled with nothing except determination to save Ian’s life, no matter thecost.
“Beck.” I look up at him, imploring. “The flask.Please.”
His face is etched with disbelief. “You’re serious aboutthis.”
Inod.
“You want to cut off a man’s leg with nothing more than a Bowie knife and somewhisky.”
I nodagain.
He leans closer. “We have no pain meds. Nothing to keep him from experiencing every excruciating instant of what you’re about to put him through. You realize that, don’tyou?”
My lower lip quivers. I bite down on it until I taste blood and give a terse nod. “Ido.”
“He may be unconscious now, but I doubt he’ll stay that way if we start hacking off his bodyparts.”
My eyes prick with tears. I fight them back. “We have nochoice.”
“We could let him go!” Beck runs a hand through his hair, exasperation blasting from every molecule of his body. “We could let him die inpeace.”
“You think he’s at peace?” I laugh bitterly. “He’s inpain, Beck. Besides that leg wound, he’s a young, fit, healthy man — he’ll take a long time to die, you can count on that. Not just hours of suffering. Days. A week, even.” I shake my head. “I can’t let him linger in pain. Not when we can do something aboutit.”
He’ssilent.
“Unless you’re still willing to — how did you phrase it?” I sneer. “Put him torest.”
At least a minute of total silence passes without either of us speaking a word or breaking eye contact. A staring contest for the ages. His jaw ticks rhythmically, a bomb set to detonate at anysecond.
“How would you even begin to know what to do?” he muttersfinally.
“My mom is a— she’s adoctor.”
Okay. So, that’s technically a lie. But sayingmy mommy is a veterinarianjust doesn’t carry the sameweight.
I hurry on. “She’s talked me through more than a few of her surgeries, over the years. Plus, I had basic first aid training as a sailinginstructor.”
He glances at the sky, as if someone up there is going to offer divine intervention. I think I hear him muttering something about adamnsailing instructor who thinks she’s adamnsurgeon under hisdamnbreath, but it’s pretty hard to make out his lowtones.
“Beck.”
His eyes return to mine. “Please… Tell me you’rekidding.”
“Ican’t.”
“God dammit, Violet, you are the moststubborn—”