“Are you in pain? Stupid question. You’ve been shot. Grazes hurt like a bitch.” I grabbed the bottom of his helmet and lifted it off. “Here, I’ll help you with this.” My words came out more rushed than I intended because I was feeling out of control, and he wasn’t giving any feedback. “You really care?” His question took me off guard. “What are you talking about?” I asked, instantly placing the back of my hand on his forehead. It was clammy, but nothing crazy, and he hadn’t lost that much blood. “I mean,” he took my hand in his, “you really do care about whether I’m okay or not.”
