Price remembers the first time he had ever held you in his arms.

Never had he held anything so small— so innocent of life; a fathers love was born that day, now he fears that this may be the last wake of love he can offer you.

He stares down at you, watching your movements dwindle into small convulses as he adds pressure to your wound. He cradles you, trying to will his voice to steady; grief and rage combat one another, a fathers primary tool.

“Get up, you need to get up.”