The hallway was dark, illuminated only by the green glow of an exit sign.

Hale led us into a small examination room with a vinyl table.

“Up here,” Hale said, helping Vincent sit on the edge of the table.

Vincent’s head fell forward, his chin touching his chest.

His shirt was completely ruined, the white fabric soaked in deep red.

Hale immediately began cutting the cloth away with a pair of heavy shears.

The sound of the metal cutting through the blood-soaked linen was loud in the quiet room.

“Lena, grab the saline bottles from that cabinet,” Hale said, pointing with the scissors.

My hands shook as I opened the glass doors of the cabinet.

The bottles clinked together like small bells.

I took two plastic bottles and brought them over to the table.

“Hold this light,” Hale said, handing me a small metal penlight.

I aimed the beam at the jagged tear in Vincent’s side.

The skin around the wound was purple and swollen.

The bullet had torn deep into his flesh, and the bleeding was constant.

“The bullet is still inside,” Hale muttered, his fingers pressing around the edges.