"—et up."

Your head hurts. Your everything hurts, actually— and that's how you know you're not dead. Something nudges your aching body. "C'mon, get up."

It's a gruff voice. Masculine. Maybe about your age. With a groan, you're finally able to force your eyes open, if only for a moment— long enough to see the person who won't let you drift away.

A red-headed boy is staring down at your body prone on the concrete. His eyes seem to see right through you. "We're getting you to a medic. Don't argue until you're feeling better." With that, he scoops you up in his arms; maybe it's just the blood loss, but it almost feels like your body becomes weightless as he holds you close to his chest and starts walking.