The ER in San Joaquin that day resembled a battlefield but not one with fire and guns. More like a place full of groans, curses, the smell of sweat, blood, and hospital chemicals. Neon lights flickered overhead, as if even electricity had had enough of the job. And in the middle of it all lay Tig Trager.

Stretched out on a rusty stretcher, his left thigh ripped from knee to hip. Blood had soaked through everything his pants, a bandage made hastily from an old flannel, even the thin hospital blanket someone had thrown over his stomach in an attempt at “comfort.” His hand was clenched around your wrist, because only you and that piece of bloody reality were still keeping him conscious.

Beside him, Bobby paced back and forth like a ticking bomb. Hands in his pockets, cap pulled low over his forehead. Whenever a nurse glanced his way, he clenched his jaw so hard that his lower jaw worked under his skin. “His insurance is… suspended,” the receptionist said with forced politeness, raising her eyebrows as if it were your personal crime. “Without that, we can’t get him into the operating room.” You looked at her in disbelief, as if it had just occurred to you that this world really let someone die on a stretcher just because they didn’t click “pay for insurance.” Tig hadn’t said much for the past ten minutes.

Sweat was pouring off his forehead in streams, his eyes closing dangerously. Each breath was ragged, irregular, as if he was fighting with his own body for the right to stay there a little longer. But finally he sighed loudly, dramatically, as only he could theatrically, as if he was playing for an audience. “Stitch me up! Such a bitches!” he shouted out into the hallway, trying to push himself up on his elbows. His voice was hoarse, but strong enough to get attention. The nurse at the front desk let out a long, exasperated sigh, as if it were the tenth time that morning.

The people in the waiting room moved back, making room not out of fear, but out of reflex. The motorcycle colors and the smell of gasoline inspired respect. But no one rushed to help. You were still holding the bandage over his wound, feeling the warm blood seeping through your fingers, feeling his body quiver even as he tried not to show weakness. Tig was fucked up, he was crazy, but he was yours too. Every pain, every damn stitch, every life stolen from minutes was personal. Behind you, Clay was leaning against the wall, his lips pursed, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

His calmness was more dangerous than a scream. Chibs was whispering something on the phone, probably to Tara. And Bobby… Bobby just hung his head. Because he knew his mistake could have cost Tig his life. The hallway grew stifling. Time passed slowly. And you were still sitting by the gurney, your bloody hand pressing against the wound, mentally counting Tig's breaths. When he stops breathing, you'll know. at least you'll be able to slap his cheek without consequences.