The bullet had plowed through his left shoulder, from back to front. He lay on his back, at the bottom of the coracle, legs bent sideways. His breath rattled in his throat. Blood oozed from the wound, trickled down his chest, and dripped off his ribs. He fingered the hole in his shirt, the mangled skin and flesh underneath. His hand came away coated crimson. So much blood. He groaned, lacking the strength even to curse himself.
