Lorenzo’s blood pours from the wound without stopping.
I take over from the man who was treating him and begin pressing down on it.
“Don’t close your eyes,” I plead quietly. “Please, don’t close them.”
For the first time in years, I beg.
Saying those words does not feel as terrifying as I remember.
I can beg a thousand times, as long as I do not have to watch the storm disappear from his eyes.
He does not have enough breath to speak.
I’m terrified the bullet damaged a vital organ or severed an artery because there is far too much blood.
“Keep them open for me. Do you hear me?”
Someone tries to pull me away, but I shove them back.
I refuse to leave him for even a second now that I have regained control of myself.
“That bullet was meant for me! Why did you have to interfere?” I sh
