"They're not yours. Put them back where you found them, stranger."
The woman's voice shook, even though she tried to keep it steady. A bead of sweat slid down her forehead. She wiped it fast, then tightened her grip on the shotgun.
I looked at the barrel. Then at her hands.
They were trembling.
I slowly set the supplies back on the tray. My hand drifted near my waistband for half a second, close to my empty gun.
She flinched hard and raised the shotgun higher.
She had no idea how to use it.
"I don't want any trouble," I said. "I just want to save my friend. She's in bad shape."
Her eyes flicked to Lila on the stretcher. Pale. Barely moving. For a second, something softened in her face.
Then it vanished.
"Not my problem," she said, forcing the words out. She gestured toward the door with the barrel. "Take her and get out."
I frowned.
"You'd really turn away your fellow man?" I kept my voice calm. "She's dying. We need help."
"I said it's not my—"
