When they return, they throw the supplies onto the table; a bottle of antibiotics, a few painkillers, and a roll of bandages. Not much, but it'll do.
I mutter a quick thanks, grab what I need, and get to work.
I clean the wound carefully, wiping away the excess blood, ignoring how it sticks to my fingers, and how I can still taste it in the air.
I clean the wound as best as I can, trying to focus on the task and not the hunger gnawing at my insides. When I press a cloth soaked in antiseptic against the gash, he groans, twitching.
"He's not infected," I announce, mostly to shut down any more arguments.
The girls both exhale in unison, tension easing slightly from their shoulders.
Then, right behind me…
"You are such a reckless idiot, Bea!"
"Oh, I'm the idiot? You're the one who opened the damn door, Yara!"
Ah. So they have names.