How could I have forgotten she was shot?

                The moment she falls, I lunge towards her, fast enough only to stop her head from hitting the ground. As my hand curls over the back of her neck, feeling the hot skin there, I see a small tattoo behind her ear.

                But it's the sight of the blood, slowly spreading over the wound, that makes me gasp.

                Motherfucker. I'm not a doctor. I'm a hacker.

                But as I lift her onto the bed and peel off her leather jacket, I know I have no choice. I have to do something. And the hospital? Not an option. Not with these handcuffs, and not with the Mafia chasing her.

                Think. Think. 

                 Okay, I have an idea. A bloody insane idea, but it might work.

                 I rummage through my pockets for dental floss, because yes, a girl has to have floss. And then I search through Veah―Heaven's―body for a knife.

                 If anyone is going to have a deadly weapon on them, it's her. 

                 Her skin is feverishly hot beneath the thin layer of clothing, and her body is hard, taut with muscle. One blade. Two. I pull out seven little daggers before I find one that is precise, and then I reach over to the motel's minifridge.

                  Alcohol. 

                  I hold my breath as I open the bottle.

                  This is going to hurt like hell. 

                  I remember having had to pour alcohol over my wounds once. Cassie was shaking too hard, and she couldn't stand the sight of me in pain over what our stepfather did. So I gritted my teeth, and I endured the blistering, burning white-hot agony.

                  Veah's eyes flutter. Her breathing begins to rocket.

                  "Veah?" I try. "Veah . . . Heaven?"

                  She nods, wetting her lips with her tongue.

                  I try to focus. Focus, Kaya. 

                  "I'm going to pour alcohol on this wound," I say. "On the count of three."

                  She nods. Her shoulder blades are smooth, rippling beneath her flushed skin. The bullet wound is still bleeding, and I know this isn't good.

                  The bullet is still in there. There's no exit point.

                  I know I'm going to have to take it out, but still I hesitate.

                  "Three," I whisper, and I pour the alcohol.

                  She grits her teeth, clenching her jaw hard. The veins in her wrist tighten as her hands fist the bedsheets, and if I knew she wasn't in excruciating pain, she would look more like . . . 

                  Don't you dare think that, Kaya. 

                  "It's clean," I soothe, dabbing the wound with what I hope is a clean pillowcase. "I have to dig into the wound now . . . I have to find the bullet."

                  "Do it," she bites out, shivering.

                   I don't hesitate. The knife probes the wound, and I thank every single god that the bullet is only shallow. It slips out of the bloody entrance, sinking into the bed. 

                   Veah grimaces, letting out a tense sound.

                  "Kaya," she says.

                  The way she says my name makes me flush. The dental floss in my hand is now being clutched with a deathly grip.

                  I'm going to have to stitch her up. I'm going to have to―

                  The thought makes me nauseous. I feel ill. I've never been going at sewing, but I'm her only hope at this point. I have to do this.

                  "I have to―I'm going to stitch this up now," I say.

                  "Kaya," she repeats, as I begin the first stitch. "What's your favourite colour?"

                  The bullet tore across her back, leaving a thin but long line across her shoulder blade. The first stitch goes in easily through the red flesh, and I am on the verge of passing out.

                  "My favourite . . ." I laugh weakly, finishing the second stitch. "Yellow. It's yellow, like sunflowers and lemons and . . . I don't know. What's yours?"

                  I realize, then, that she is doing this for my sake. To distract me. 

                  She pauses, as the third stitch goes in. "Black."

                  "Black?" I say. Fourth stitch. "That's not a colour. And I won't accept that―it's too dark."

                  "That's kind of the point," she says, laughing grimly.

                  "No," I insist. "That's not a colour. Pick something else."

                  "Are you telling me what my favourite colour is?"

                  "No," I say. Fifth stitch―she doesn't even flinch. "I am merely suggesting that you pick a better favourite colour. I think . . . green. But not grass green. Dark, emerald green, like a forest at night."

                   "That's good," she says. Breathing hard. "Are you a writer?"

                   "No," I say, blushing, glad she can't see me. "No, I'm a computer engineer."

                   "A . . . computer engineer."

                   "Yeah," I say. Sixth stitch. Done. "I major in engineering and math."

                   I rip off a strip of cloth and tie it over her bullet wound. The blood soaks in after only seconds, which makes my heart stop―but then it slows. Clotting.

                   A breath of relief. "You're okay."

                   Veah turns around and shrugs on her leather jacket, as though she wasn't just shot and stitched up, as though she is ready to do it all over again.

                   Jesus Christ. "Sit down!" I snap. "You're going to hurt yourself!"

                    Shit. Why do I sound like that? I don't care if she hurts herself. I don't care if she rips out all the stitches I just sewed. I don't care―

                    A smirk pulls at one side of her mouth. I think she's going to reply with something sharp, witty, but then her face softens.

                    "Kaya," she begins. "I'm―"

                    "No," I interrupt. "Let's just . . . go to sleep, alright?"

                    With my hand snagging on the handcuff, I curl into a sleeping position as best I can. As close to the edge of the bed as possible. As far away from her as I can get.

                    I turn off the lamp beside me, and the world dissolves into dark.

                    "Goodnight," I say stiffly. 

                    Just before I drift off, I think I hear her whisper, Green . . . I could get used to that. But then the dreams blur with reality, and I forget entirely.

>>>

You know, this actually makes you guys―whoever is currently reading this―the firsts. Considering this book is still new, I'm actually pretty glad to have you all here. 

From the moon and back,
Sarai