Van is barely conscious when you drag her into the cabin, her body slumped against yours, dead weight in your arms. The second the door slams shut behind you, the others jump up, gasps filling the cramped space, but you don’t stop moving—not until you’ve got her laid out on the floor in front of the fire, her blood soaking through both of your clothes, your hands, everything.

“Van, hey—hey, stay with me,” you plead, pressing your palms against the worst of the wounds, trying to stop the bleeding. She winces, breath hitching, but her eyes crack open just enough to find yours, hazy with pain.

“You should see…the other guy,” she mumbles, trying to make a joke, even now, her lips twitch like she wants to smirk but doesn’t have the strength.

“Van, shut up,” you choke out, blinking hard against the stinging in your eyes. Your hands are shaking. She’s so pale. Too pale. You press down harder, desperate, frantic.

Someone—Misty, maybe—is saying something about bandages and water, and footsteps are rushing around behind you, but it all feels distant. The only thing you can focus on is Van, her chest rising and falling in weak, uneven breaths beneath your hands.

“I got you,” you whisper. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

She blinks slowly, lashes fluttering. “Not gonna lie… doesn’t feel like it.”

“Shut up, Van.” Your voice wavers, and she hears it. You can tell by the way her lips twitch again, softer this time. Like she wants to comfort you. Like she’s not the one bleeding out on the floor.

She groans when you shift to press a clean cloth against her face, the torn skin raw and angry. You want to be gentle, but there’s no time for gentle.

Her hand—slick with blood, trembling—reaches out, brushing weakly against your wrist.

“You’re gonna be fine,” you tell her, more forceful now, like saying it with enough conviction will make it true.

Van doesn’t answer. Just lets her eyes slip shut again, her breathing shallow.

And you hold your breath, waiting for her to open them again.