There are ten pints of blood in the adult body. Ten pints.

One pint was spilling out from under his body, painting the cement around us a deep crimson. Another was coating the front of my shirt, but a person could survive on eight pints. They could even survive on seven, which was running down the sides of his abdomen in brilliant ribbons of red, like a package crudely ripped opened. 

But not six. 

Six pints meant death, and it had already begun to drain beneath my hands, squelching between my fingers and soaking his upper torso. I wished he'd worn something other than white.

"You're not dying, okay?" I told him. It was an order and I injected as much conviction as I could into my voice which wasn't very much.  But that was okay; I could lie well enough. Doctors always had to, just as much with their words as their faces. Maybe even more so. They wanted to break it to the families with ease, not let something like the set of their lips give it away. 

I went over what I knew to keep myself from that, from letting my feelings bleed into my expression. His partially distended abdomen was an indication of internal bleeding; pulse was fading fast. Six pints six pints six pints.

I took a shaky breath. "You'll be fine," I said, my voice feeling misplaced somewhere in my throat, like it took a wrong turn. It came out strained and broken. 

I pressed my hands down harder over the wound, ignoring the convulsion that ran through his body. I stared into his face, eyelashes casting shadows onto his cheekbones,  his unruly dark hair framing around his head like a halo. I tried to hear past his painful gasps. 

"You're okay," I said again. It came out louder than I intended, as if I was making a bargain with God. "The ambulance is on its way."

He let out a choked sound, haggard and garbled. Blood bubbled up his throat, staining his lips an awful scarlet. But I still told myself he'd be fine. He had to be. There was no other option.

His eyes suddenly fluttered open and I found myself looking into liquid brown. There was a resolve in them, like he'd made peace with something I couldn't see. There was a goodbye in those eyes and his hand latched onto mine. He squeezed.

But I wasn't ready. "No." I shook my head adamantly. "No, you're not dying on me, okay?" It was a beg this time, but I didn't care. I'd beg for him. I'd beg the world for him. "I need you to fight. Please, please. Do it for me. Fight for me!"

His eyes stayed on mine for another moment, clear. Beautiful. Then they drifted to the stars above my shoulder. 

They glazed over, and his grip went slack.