He squeezed the syringe into the soldier's arm.
So many implored him:
help me, will I live; don't go.
All the statements jumbled,
he had to save those he could.
"Good as new," he smiled.
A bullet whizzed past him,
inches from his face.
He stood up slowly, steadying himself.
He shoved the syringe into his pocket,
running, running, running.
Left to right.
Back again.
Which bodies were on his side—did it matter?
He bent down,
reaching for the next arm,
looking through the next set of terrified eyes.
An ear-splitting sound.
The bullet pierced his skin,
fighting its way through,
tearing.
The fissure rippled in his muscles.
He fell,
grasping at the wound,
squeezing his eyes,
jaw clamped.
Pain.
"Please God—"
He winced as he recoiled his leg,
panting,
"let me live."