Malory
“Is he okay?” asks the taxi driver, “He looks like he’s in pretty bad shape, are you sure you don’t want to take him to a hospital instead?”
“We don’t have time to get to a hospital,” I say.
The driver sighs and shakes his head, continuing to drive.
I stare down at Kyle, whose head is leaning against my shoulder. He pants, his body shivering and shaking. He’s still bleeding, too.
I won’t make him talk. I’ll take him home, clean him up, and let him get some rest.
***
When we get to the house, I realise that I don’t have my keys.
“Kyle,” I say, setting him down on the doorstep, “Do you have a hairpin?”
“It’s open,” he tells me, “When I got here earlier,” he pauses to breathe, “It was locked but I picked it,” he coughs and cringes, hugging himself, “I just closed it before I ran off.”
I open the door and take him inside, and there I proceed to take care of him.