**Authors Note: Thank you so much to my one and only reader, Gothic Spook.
If any lovely silent readers exist PLEASE COMMENT. I have self esteem
issues, (j/k) no but I do love to hear when people like my stories, or if
they hate them, or if there is something I should change.**
"Walking on the edge of rage and understanding, between the black and the white. This child is so angry, alone here tonight."
-From "Dance Without Sleeping" by Melissa Etheridge
Doggett didn't think that he was being followed, but he drove evasively just in case. He turned onto a gravel road and followed it through to another paved road. Then he turned onto another gravel road. Finally he pulled off to the side and parked the car out of site of the road.
The whole time he had been reaching over and feeling to make sure Reyes was still breathing. Now he turned to her. "Monica. Monica wake up!" The place where the bullet had grazed her temple was still oozing blood. Around the edges a scab was starting to form. He dug through their backpack and found the first aid kit that Reyes had insisted they bring along.
As he trimmed her hair from around the wound and began to clean it, she stirred. "John? What happened?" He had pulled her head into his lap where he could bandage it easily. He was holding a flashlight under his chin, and she hit her head on it when she tried to sit up. "Ow! She exclaimed and grabbed her head. Feeling the blood, she forced herself upright.
"Shh, be still. You've been shot. Just a flesh wound, but come back here and let me finish patching it up." He folded his coat in his lap to make a pillow and reached for her, pulling her back down by the back of her neck. She sat still long enough for him to clean and cover the wound, then sat up again, a little too fast. Dizzy, she nearly fainted again. He caught her. Laying her seat back so she could lie down, he once again sacrificed his coat so she could have a pillow.
She didn't sleep. "Where are we?" she asked.
"I'm not sure. I outran him and pulled off the road. It looks like we might not be going to London after all."
"I'm really thirsty. We don't have any water, do we?"
"No, sorry. There's this?" He handed her his coffee cup. The contents were hours old, and not even luke warm, but she drank anyway. Then she shivered. He opened their backpack. No blanket, but they had each grabbed an extra set of clothes. He helped her put hers on over what she was already wearing. "Better?"
"Yes, a little," she said, still shivering. Doggett lifted up the armrest separating the two seats and scooted over closer to her. He slid his right arm under her neck and used his left to pull her in close.
"Better?" he asked again.
"Much," she answered truthfully. Within seconds, she was sound asleep. He held her as she slept, kissing her forehead protectively. He dozed on and off, but mostly just laid there, looking at her beautiful face, stroking her hair, and praying. Praying wasn't something he did often—in fact he hadn't done it at all since before Luke died—but he prayed now. He felt lost and hopeless, and he prayed for a miracle.
***In south America, Sister Noel was praying too. Praying that she was doing the right thing. Praying that if she wasn't, that God would forgive her. She prayed the whole way as she walked to the police station, and hesitated outside the door. Uttering an audible "Amen," she walked inside.
"Walking on the edge of rage and understanding, between the black and the white. This child is so angry, alone here tonight."
-From "Dance Without Sleeping" by Melissa Etheridge
Doggett didn't think that he was being followed, but he drove evasively just in case. He turned onto a gravel road and followed it through to another paved road. Then he turned onto another gravel road. Finally he pulled off to the side and parked the car out of site of the road.
The whole time he had been reaching over and feeling to make sure Reyes was still breathing. Now he turned to her. "Monica. Monica wake up!" The place where the bullet had grazed her temple was still oozing blood. Around the edges a scab was starting to form. He dug through their backpack and found the first aid kit that Reyes had insisted they bring along.
As he trimmed her hair from around the wound and began to clean it, she stirred. "John? What happened?" He had pulled her head into his lap where he could bandage it easily. He was holding a flashlight under his chin, and she hit her head on it when she tried to sit up. "Ow! She exclaimed and grabbed her head. Feeling the blood, she forced herself upright.
"Shh, be still. You've been shot. Just a flesh wound, but come back here and let me finish patching it up." He folded his coat in his lap to make a pillow and reached for her, pulling her back down by the back of her neck. She sat still long enough for him to clean and cover the wound, then sat up again, a little too fast. Dizzy, she nearly fainted again. He caught her. Laying her seat back so she could lie down, he once again sacrificed his coat so she could have a pillow.
She didn't sleep. "Where are we?" she asked.
"I'm not sure. I outran him and pulled off the road. It looks like we might not be going to London after all."
"I'm really thirsty. We don't have any water, do we?"
"No, sorry. There's this?" He handed her his coffee cup. The contents were hours old, and not even luke warm, but she drank anyway. Then she shivered. He opened their backpack. No blanket, but they had each grabbed an extra set of clothes. He helped her put hers on over what she was already wearing. "Better?"
"Yes, a little," she said, still shivering. Doggett lifted up the armrest separating the two seats and scooted over closer to her. He slid his right arm under her neck and used his left to pull her in close.
"Better?" he asked again.
"Much," she answered truthfully. Within seconds, she was sound asleep. He held her as she slept, kissing her forehead protectively. He dozed on and off, but mostly just laid there, looking at her beautiful face, stroking her hair, and praying. Praying wasn't something he did often—in fact he hadn't done it at all since before Luke died—but he prayed now. He felt lost and hopeless, and he prayed for a miracle.
***In south America, Sister Noel was praying too. Praying that she was doing the right thing. Praying that if she wasn't, that God would forgive her. She prayed the whole way as she walked to the police station, and hesitated outside the door. Uttering an audible "Amen," she walked inside.