“Come on,” I finally said, blowing out the one kerosene lantern I’d lit when we arrived. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
He nodded, grimacing as he got to his feet. We stepped outside into the cold midmorning air, and I breathed in the sweet, fresh scent of damp earth and pine, looking up to the tall evergreens in the forest around us. Long, curved branches swayed in a gentle wind, moving like a conductor’s arms leading his musicians through a slow and beautiful symphony. I carried the first aid kit up the hill to the truck, opening the passenger side door for Tyler, who staggered slowly behind me, his left hand still pressing on his now-wrapped wound. I knew he had to be in agony, but I took less pleasure from this than I’d thought I would. Don’t go soft now, I thought. After all of this, don’t let him think that he doesn’t have to follow through.
It took well over an hour to drive up over the logging road and get back on the highway that would lead us into the town of Monroe, where I knew the closest emergency room would be. My parents had taken me there one summer, years before we had even met Tyler and his family, when we’d gone to the cabin and I’d slipped on the rocks in the river and broken my arm. I was half-tempted to make him wait until we got back to Bellingham, where I could take him to St. Joseph’s and the police could come and hear him confess from his hospital bed. I was afraid if I waited, if I let him think too long, he might go back on his word and the entire night would have been for nothing. But as I glanced at the sloppy bandage I’d wrapped around his wound, I could see that, despite the special gauze, it was already soaked through with a large spot of bright-red blood. He needed a doctor, and I was too afraid of what would happen if I didn’t get him to one. However much I hated Tyler, however much I wanted him to pay, I didn’t actually want him dead. I wanted him alive and able to suffer the consequences of his crime. I wanted him to feel every minute of humiliation and loss that his confession would bring.
Tyler didn’t speak during the drive; he only rested his head against the window, eyes closed, continuing to clutch his injured shoulder with his one good hand. He was pale, his breathing was rapid, and his skin was clammy. When I finally pulled up in front of the emergency room entrance and turned off the engine, it was me who broke the silence. “Are you going to tell them I shot you?” My heart raced inside my chest. I kept my eyes forward, unable to look at him as I waited for his reply.
“It was an accident,” he said, and I could tell from the staggered pace of the words that he was in a great deal of pain. “You didn’t know it was loaded.” He must have sensed my hesitance, because he spoke again. “Don’t worry. I know what to say.”
I bobbed my head, still unsure whether I could trust him, and jumped out of the truck, quickly making my way into the ER. “My friend’s been shot,” I said. My voice trembled, and the woman at the front desk gave me a suspicious look, as though she was trying to decide whether to call for a doctor or security. I held my breath until she nodded and picked up the phone. A moment later, a man and a woman dressed in mint-green scrubs appeared with a gurney. “This way,” I said, leading them out to the truck, where Tyler was slumped against the passenger door.
“What happened?” the man asked, as the two of them carefully extracted Tyler from the front seat.
I kept my eyes on Tyler, my muscles tensed, wondering how he might respond. He could easily turn the tables, I thought. He could tell them I kidnapped and shot him, and then every bit of this night, every moment I’d suffered, would be pointless. I could end up going to jail instead of him.
“We were looking at her dad’s gun up at their cabin,” Tyler said through clenched teeth, groaning a bit as they moved him. “We didn’t know it was loaded,” he said. “It was an accident.”
I let loose a quiet sigh of relief.
“Is that true?” the woman asked, skeptically.
I swallowed hard, wondering if she could tell that he was lying. Did she wonder if he’d tried to attack me and I’d shot him in self-defense? Did she think that maybe I’d shot him outright? “Yes,” I said, and despite my exhaustion and frayed nerves, I managed to keep my tone calm and my expression neutral.
“We’ll have to report it,” the man said, as they pushed the gurney back inside, me trailing a few feet behind them. “Reception likely already called the police. It’s protocol.”
“Okay,” I said, not knowing if I should stay with Tyler or wait for him by the front desk. I didn’t want to be around him any more than I had to, but I also was worried what he might tell his doctors or the police if I wasn’t standing right there. My stomach churned, as I was unable to think of anything but getting him back to Bellingham, to the police station, and making sure that he confessed.
Once Tyler was in a small room of the ER, the woman informed us that they were both nurses, and the doctor was on his way. They began running IVs, taking Tyler’s blood pressure, and removing the gauze I’d slapped on his shoulder in order to examine the bloody damage. The female nurse took down our names, writing them on a chart that hung on the end of Tyler’s bed.
I stood as far back as I could, not wanting to be in the way. A short, heavy man in light-blue scrubs arrived and introduced himself as Dr. Morris, then listened to the nurses’ assessment of Tyler’s condition.
“The bullet went through and through,” the male nurse said. “A reported accidental discharge. The police are on their way.”
Dr. Morris glanced at me, where I cowered in the corner, arms crossed over my chest. “And you are?”
“A friend,” Tyler answered for me. “We live in Bellingham, but Amber’s family has a cabin out past Index, on the Skykomish. We were up there winterizing it, and unfortunately, when she picked up the gun, it went off.”
“I didn’t know it was loaded,” I said, repeating what Tyler had already told the nurses, hoping I sounded more convincing than I felt.
“I see.” The doctor began to examine Tyler’s wound, ordering X-rays and an MRI to assess the damage. “Looks like you managed to stop the bleeding fairly quickly,” he said.
“I’m a paramedic,” Tyler said. “I had hemostatic gauze in my kit.”
“Good thing,” Dr. Morris said. “Depending on what your tests show, we might be able to avoid surgery.” He rattled off instructions to the nurses, who made note of them as he spoke, and then the doctor and the female nurse disappeared from the room.
I watched as the remaining nurse hung a bag of clear fluid from the silver pole next to Tyler’s bed and then injected something into his IV. “What are you giving him?” I asked, worried that if Tyler got too loopy from pain meds, he might start babbling about what really happened.