Oh, God. He needs a hospital, not a bloody vet.
Josh must have sensed something from me. “Wulfan can’t go to emergency. If you can get him stitched, he’ll heal. He’s a stubborn bastard.”
It was a moot point—Peter would never make it to a hospital. He’d lost too much blood and was still losing it. I nodded and took a deep breath. “I need my clamps—they’re rolled in a piece of tan-colored fabric, in a corner of the bag. Right side as the flap faces you. The outside pocket has gloves. Put a pair on and have another handy.”
My heart pounded in rhythm with the warm fluid running over my fingers and puddling on the floor. I knew Peter couldn’t have much of the precious stuff left in him. Hurry. “Same spot, near the bottom, a tray. Other side, large bottle of disinfectant. Pour some in. Put the clamps in the fluid.”
Years of working animal emergencies, where every second counted toward a life, had me slipping into a familiar pattern that calmed me. I pushed aside the fact that the body beneath my fingers was Peter. There is a reason you shouldn’t work on someone you care about.
“Okay, here we go. Hand me a clamp.”
As far as I could tell, the claws had torn into the internal jugular vein, and possibly the exterior. They weren’t severed, or he’d be dead, and the deeper arteries must be intact for the same reason. Josh handed me a surgical clamp, so I replaced the fingers pinching the vessel with it and locked it down. The flow of blood slowed.
From somewhere near Josh’s butt, a ring sounded. “Hungry Like the Wolf”—Chris, but no time to answer now. Josh hesitated.
“Leave it,” I said. “Hand me the bottle in the outer pocket of the bag.”
His lips compressed but he left it alone and surfed through the pocket. I used the resulting saline to flush away the blood, some of which had already clotted. “Clamp,” I said, and he handed me another. And another. Soon, I had all six sticking out of the jagged wound, and the bleeding had all but stopped.
I stood and ran to the sink, turning the hot water on full.
“I need my suture kit. It’s red, about ten inches long, left side of my bag.”
As Josh dug into it, I glanced at him.
“Other side,” I said, and he found it.
“See the sterile suture packets? Dump them on the floor.” Josh did so, and I ran my eyes over them. “Third from the left. Open it—don’t touch anything and dump it into the tray.” Like doing this on a kitchen floor is sterile. Peter has worse worries than infection. “Put the scissors in there too. I’ll need another two kits—the ones on the end. That’s it.”
Josh set the other two packets near the tray. His movements, like his gaze when he looked up, were sure and steady.
“Other side of the bag from the last bottle, can you fetch the surgical soap? It’ll be in a sterile packet.”
Josh brought it, and I scrubbed the blood off my arms and hands, as hard and fast as I could. I glanced at him. His face was pale but composed. “The blue box in the back of my SUV has my IV kit. He needs fluids or his heart might stop on us.”
Josh vanished out the door. By the time I finished scrubbing, and inserted my hands into gloves, my assistant was prepping the IV.
“I’ve done this before,” he said through clenched teeth.
An image of Chris’s scars flashed before my eyes. I bet he has.
Josh had the IV set up in record time. I left him to it and crouched over the wound, turning Peter’s head to take advantage of the overhead light. Then I pulled the suture out of the disinfectant and started in. I’d been right about the veins—the claws had caught the internal jugular in two places, creating jagged tears, and the exterior had received a glancing blow. Stitching for all I was worth, I paused to remove the clamps and test for leaks, before stitching again. I’d decided they were good, when the distinctive pulse of the blood through the veins slowed—and ceased. Peter’s heart had stopped beating.
Dammit. I abandoned everything and began chest compressions. I’m not equipped for this. He’s lost too much blood. His heart stuttered and started, but his pulse was so weak.
“He needs a transfusion,” Josh said.
I looked at him.
“Doc Hayek will have plasma. Until he arrives, you can use me.”
“No. I don’t know Peter’s blood type and transfusing with the wrong one could kill him.”
Josh clenched his jaw. “I’ve done it with Chris.”
Shaking my head, I kicked myself back into gear, peeling off the gloves contaminated by contact with Peter’s chest and pulling on new ones. I grabbed a fresh needle and went to work closing the neck wound.
It didn’t take long. I pulled clippers out of my bag and shaved around the gash in his hair.
“What the hell did that?” Josh asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said, “But I’m worried he has a skull fracture. It had to have been something blunt and hard, swung with force.” I changed gloves again and sterilized the wound before stitching it closed. That part done, we rolled him, and I worked on the slashes across his back.
“Just do the deepest,” Josh said. When I glanced at him, he added, “Trust
