David, Neil and John came flying from backstage with towels.
“John, come here,” Lucky said. “Take his arm. Keep the towel in place on his hand. Your other hand here, this is the pressure point. Feel it? Keep holding it tight. Neil, get in here. See his side? The bullet went straight through. Pressure front and back. Good, keep it there.”
Lucky came to Daisy then. She snatched the towel David was trying to fold into a bandage. “Move,” she said. “Out of the way. Go get Will’s feet up, get them elevated. Fish, you keep pressure going. Let me in here.” Swiftly she replaced Erik’s shirt with the folded towel. “Jesus,” she whispered, a frantic edge in her voice. “Fuck, this is not good. We need help.”
Not letting up on the pressure, Erik jammed his elbow into Lucky’s side, just hard enough to startle her, shock her back on track. “Don’t you fall apart on me, Luck,” he said through clenched teeth. “You know what to do. You’re the only one who knows what to do. Do it.”
Lucky pressed her lips, drawing air in through her nose. “She breathing, Dave?”
David now lay on his stomach on the floor, holding Daisy’s head. “She’s awake.”
“Neil, Johnny—is Will conscious?”
“He’s with us,” John said.
“Pressure, then,” Lucky muttered. “Pressure, pressure…” Her lips moved vaguely, as if reciting.
Daisy moaned, her upper body writhing. “Squeeze my hands, Marge,” David said, giving them to her. “Hard as you want. Go ahead and break my fingers. I know you always wanted to.” Daisy moaned again and David began to speak soothingly in French. His voice was pitched low in his chest. It didn’t falter even as her face kept coiling up into spasms of pain and her knuckles were clenched white around his fingers.
Time dripped by.
“Will breathing?” Lucky kept saying.
Sometimes John answered, sometimes Neil. “He’s breathing,” they said.
“I’m breathin’, babe,” Will said once. His voice was soft and shaky, but it was there.
“Don’t talk,” Lucky said.
David kept whispering in French.
Daisy said nothing.
Little by little, Erik became aware of the presence of campus security. Then police began to fill the theater, sleek and menacing in vests and helmets. Like an invasion of black bugs they swarmed the aisles and wings, multiplied to fill the stage with authority. Loud voices. The crackle of walkie-talkies. And everywhere Erik glanced he saw guns.
Paramedics then. Hustling in pairs with bags of equipment. They were vested as well but more benevolent in shades of blue. One of them, a large black man, knelt down by Daisy’s shoulder. His partner—slight and trim with a baseball cap—settled by her legs. Brisk and calm, he introduced himself as Greg, asked Erik and Lucky’s names, then quickly unzipped a bag and pulled on gloves. “You two keep those hands where they are.”
“Hey there,” the black medic said, up by Daisy’s head. “My name’s Lewis. I’m a county paramedic. Can you tell me your name?”
She gave it. Erik exhaled in relief.
“All right, Daisy. Do you know where you are?”
“I… I’m at school.”
“Good. Do you know what’s happened?”
Her head lolled side to side.
“Do you remember anything?”
“The glass…”
“What’s that?”
“I heard it.”
“You heard gunshots, Daisy. You were hit in the leg. We’re gonna take a look at you and get you to a hospital as fast as we can.”
“Did I fall down?”
“You could say so. We’re gonna get you out of here. Besides the leg, can you tell me if you have pain anywhere else? In your back or your neck?” His large, competent hands began to move along her collarbones and arms. “I see you’re squeezing your friend’s hands there, excellent. No broken bones in your arms. Do you have pain in your head? Chest or abdomen? No? Just the leg.” Deftly he withdrew a penlight and shone it in each eye, held up a finger and had her follow it.