Even in his daze, he shakes his head frantically and keeps his mouth firmly closed. I know that look. I f*****g know that look.
And I know exactly who gave it to him.
“Nobody loves me / It’s true / Not like you do”
— “Sour Times” by Portishead
Red and blue lights. Siren wailing. Ambulance, red, big, square, men in uniform with stretchers that look like medieval torture devices, metal and Elliot both groaning as they crank the stretcher up and prepare to raise him onto it.
“Ma’am, we need you to step back,” one of the paramedics instructs. He’s a stocky guy with a shaved head and latex gloves already on, and he’s frowning at me in a suspicious sort of way that just makes me feel that much worse.
Numbly, robotically, I move out of the way. They kneel beside Elliot and start doing their
