“Unlocking Secrets: What Lies Within Carrie Mac’s Mysterious Three Envelopes?”
She’s still breathing, but not enough. She has a pulse, but only at the carotid. I glance to my right, where the cot should be waiting, but all I see are Dale’s gleaming boots.
The woman slurps air through a mouthful of blood. Another woman is screaming, but I can’t figure out where she is.
“What do we do?” Dale hooks his thumb on his belt, which is crowded with all the things the rest of us don’t bother with after a while: little pouches for gloves and phones and radios and scissors, clips for keys and flashlights. “Fuck,” he says. “Fuck!”
