The paramedic's hands were efficient and clinical as he cleaned the wound. However, my hands won't stop shaking.
"Come on. Come on!" And I push them through will power alone: the gauze against the angry red ridge of skin the bullet carved along Tony's ribs. The bullet passed from his left side through his back - six inches of ripped skin that could have been six inches deeper, could have damaged his lungs, his heart, killed him while he was protecting me.
"Pressure's good," the paramedic reassures him. "You're doing fine, ma'am."
Ma'am? Like this is normal, like the man I love didn't just take a bullet meant for me."
Tony sits on the kitchen chair, bare-chested, and grimaces in silent pain. His tattooed torso is a map of violence: the direction sign on his shoulder, the numbers along his ribs (which are presently concealed beneath the mask of blood), the crest of the Marvin family brands across the width of his torso. And now this scar.
"How many times?" I whisper.
