"Thanks for that, Nick," I mumble quietly, trying to get myself to my feet. Once I manage to do so, the world sways slightly, and I almost return to my prostrate position. I would have, if Nick had not grabbed my uninjured arm and kept me steady. My vision is swimming along with the waves of the ocean, and blood is still spewing from my hand.
    Nick slowly guides me to the sink. "Come on. We have to get that out of you and cleaned before it gets infected. With all of the work you do, we can't lose you. Especially not this way."
    "We're all going to die, anyway," I point out. "The boat is sinking, remember?"
    "Oh . . .right. Well, hey, stop being so negative! Is this new change in attitude a result of the blood loss?"
    "How should I know? I can barely feel my hand in the first place. Now, can you do as you said you were going to do, and help me get this thing out?"
    "Y-yeah. Sure." He turns the water on. "Now, was it warm or cool? You seem to be way better at this biology thing than I am."
    "Cold," I spit back. "It numbs the area, reduces inflammation, and decreases swelling. And, as for the biology thing? I would think so. There is a reason why I am the captain of this team, Nicholas. And that is the whole reason why we are on this research vessel in the first place."
    Nick does not respond. Instead, he just lets the cold water run. "There. Now, can you put your hand under it for me?"
    "I am not a child-" I try to protest. But, before I can even finish my statement, my hand is jerked up and away from my side, and placed into the metal sink under freezing cold water. Well, at least I was right. The water quickly releases any feeling I have left in my hand for the time being, spilling through my fingers along with my blood. The bottom of the sink is turning a deep red in color, and I still feel like I could drop to the ground at any moment, now.
    I turn to Nick, holding back a gasp at his audacity. "Unhand me."
    "What?" He asks, confused, and I can see in his face that he has no idea why I am saying this to him.
    "I said unhand me, Nicholas. I do not wish to be touched, and I am quite capable of recovering myself and performing the correct procedures on my own. Thank you." I rip my limp hand out of his grip and let my arm flop against the edge of the sink, still bleeding.
Nick still looks concerned, but he resigns himself and takes a step away. "Sorry. I wasn't trying to personally offend you or anything."
"Think nothing of it," I spit back, continuing to wash the blood away as more and more somehow keeps bubbling up. Then, I decide that it is finally time to rip the glass shard out of my exposed skin. Gathering my courage, and a shaky breath, I get ready to place my fingers on the reflective material. But, then, I realize that it would be a good idea for me to be wearing gloves while I am doing this. Well, at least one glove to protect the fingers on my other hand from being seriously ripped up.
I slide the ugly, green, thick material over my hand without the glass shard embedded in it, grimacing in pain. Why me? Why now?
Nick walks back up, hesitant. "Do you need me to hold it steady?"
I relax my posture slightly, nodding to him. "That would be beneficial, yes. Would you mind?"
I feel Nick's hands wrap around my arm, again. They are certainly more stable than my own hands, which I can't seem to get to stop sporadically vibrating. Maybe I am growing weak from the blood loss, after all. Maybe Nick was actually right for once.
Once his hold on my arm is fairly secure, I raise my gloved hand to the shard. My fingers grip it tightly, just enough of a vise to make sure I can get it out without hurting myself more than I need to. I begin to slowly twist it back and forth, trying in vain to get it out. Nick looks at me with worry and unbridled apprehension in his eyes.
"Do you want me to do it?" He asks, his tone of voice gentle, calculated, and precise. "I-I can help you, i-if you can't do it by yourself." His stuttering is growing more and more evident, and I have known him for a while, so I know that this means that he is, in fact, very nervous. But I also know that he means well . . . most of the time. There is not a malevolent bone in his body. He would never actually hurt me on purpose.
"No," I answer unsteadily, swallowing a disgusting mouthful of saliva that comes in the form of unease and prolific dread. "I think I can do it. I just need you to hold my hand steady and tight. Do not let your fingers slip. Can you do that?"
Nick agrees quickly, staying where he is. "Go ahead. Pull it out." HE starts, then pauses to think. "Uhh . . . Slowly? Slowly!" He decides.
"Thank you, Mr. Shaw, but I knew that already." I return to twisting the piece of glass with my fingers, trying to force it to worm its way out. Finally, albeit the process taking an obscenely long amount of time, it is starting to remove itself.
"It's working!" Nick encourages. "Keep going, Manny!"
One final pull, and the blood-stained glass is out in the open air. I stare down at it without speaking, watching the blood drip to the floor. Nick releases his grip on my arm, and he walks away for a moment. When he comes back, he has a deck chair in his hands.
"You should sit down," he tells me, trying his best to be helpful. "What else can I do? You are still bleeding quite a lot, and I know that that can't be good." Nick helps me guide myself into a chair, keeping my weak-feeling legs from collapsing beneath me. I sit quietly, trying in vain to gather my thoughts into some form of coherency.
"Can you get the first-aid kit?" I ask once I have been sitting for a few minutes or so. "I need to wrap this and clean it out." Yes, I have still been bleeding steadily through this whole ordeal, especially right after the jagged glass ripped through my tender flesh for the second time in only about seven minutes.
He agrees quickly and rushes off to who knows where yet again. I keep my seat in deeply rooted silence, mouth closed with a vise grip, not daring to speak. I have no idea what would come out of my mouth if I tried, anyway.
Nick runs back, swinging a large, white metal case at his side. He opens it quickly and unrolls a length of compression bandage from the coil in the kit. Sliding it around my hand, he wraps it tightly but not to the point of oppression, exactly as our medical discourse class we were forced to take taught us how to do.
"Thank you," I tell him, standing up. Then, the phone rings, startling me out of my semi-conscious daze. I go to the other counter, across the deck from the one I am sitting at, wobbling a bit as I get there. Nick offers to help me for the millionth time, but I once again remind him that I am not a child and I can do a simple, mundane task such as walking thirty feet completely by myself, without help from him or anyone.
My hand fumbles across the counter for a minute before I can finally wrap my hand around the receiver. The cool plastic feels really good against my skin, which I am sure has taken on the flush of both embarrassment and exertion by this point in time.
"Hello?" I ask into the phone, forced to clear my throat as the reply comes out distorted and warped.
"Emmanuel," a warm, caring voice, smooth like honey, responds. It belongs to Marina Castel, the Captain of our one little vessel in this great big ocean.
"Yes?" I ask quickly, pressing the phone to my ear to better hear and understand her voice. "What is it? Are there any new developments on our current situation?"
"That is exactly what I was about to tell you. Good connections, as always, Mister Ngundi. Well, you are right. I have new information, but I do not think you are going to like it, Sir. Are you ready to brace yourself?"
"Yes," I repeat. "Please, do go on."
"Manny, Finn and James just finished running their set of calculations concerning our time constraints. Based on their predictions, we have thirty-six hours before the boat sinks and we all end up, quite literally, in some hot water."
Oh, God. My knees are growing weaker, again. It feels like the boat is swaying under me, more than usual, at least. Thirty-six hours. We have thirty-six hours to live.