The Cost of a Gun

"F*ck," I mutter, examining the wound. The cut demands attention, probably needs stitches. Professional medical care isn't an option, no ID, no money, no explanation for a knife wound that wouldn't attract police attention.

I tear off my sleeve, wrapping it tightly around the gash. It's a temporary solution at best. I need supplies, antiseptic, proper bandages.

I pocket the revolver, it is a valuable asset despite the circumstances. Five bullets remain in the cylinder.

Standing makes my head swim. I lean against the alley wall, breathing deeply until the dizziness passes. My watch reads 7:12 AM. The day has barely started, and I've already nearly died.

"Perfect timing as always, Carlos," I mutter to myself, pushing away from the wall. The bleeding has slowed, but not stopped. I need help, and I need it soon.

I stagger toward the alley entrance, wondering if the girl made it to safety.

The alley swims before my eyes as I stumble toward the street. Each step sends a fresh wave of pain shooting up my arm. Blood seeps through my makeshift bandage, dripping between my fingers.

"Hey! Stop right there!" A man's voice cuts through my pain-fogged brain.

I raise the revolver instinctively, my wounded arm protesting the sudden movement. My vision clears enough to make out a figure rushing toward me, another smaller one behind him.

"Whoa, easy!" The man stops abruptly, hands raised. "I'm not with them."

I blink hard, trying to focus. He's maybe mid-twenties, lean build, with an eyebrow scar that gives him a perpetually intense expression. Behind him, partially hidden, is the girl from the alley.

"Maria, stay back," he orders without turning around.

The girl peeks around him. "That's him," she says, voice barely above a whisper. "He tried to help me."

The man's posture shifts subtly. Still cautious, but less defensive. "You're bleeding pretty bad, man."

I lower the gun, suddenly aware of how the concrete beneath me seems to tilt. "Just a scratch."

"Miguel," the girl says, tugging at the man's sleeve. "They were going to take me. He fought them."

Miguel's eyes narrow, scanning the empty alley behind me. "The Colombians?"

I nod, immediately regretting the movement as the world spins. "Three of them. Black Cadilac."

Miguel mutters something under his breath that sounds like a prayer or a curse. He approaches slowly, eyes on the revolver still dangling from my hand.

"Maria, are you hurt?" he asks, gently examining her face where one of the men had slapped her.

"I'm okay," she says, though her voice trembles. Her eyes find mine. "He saved me."

Miguel turns to me, his expression a complex mix of gratitude and suspicion. "That's a lot of blood you're losing, amigo."

"Noticed that," I say, trying for humor but managing only a grimace. The edges of my vision are darkening, not a good sign.

"Our place is just there," Miguel gestures to a small house across the street. "I've got supplies. Can patch that up before you bleed out."

I hesitate. Street smarts scream never follow strangers, especially after a violent encounter. But blood continues to drip steadily from my fingertips, forming a small puddle at my feet. Not many options here.

"Why help me?" I ask, voice rougher than I intend.

Miguel's expression softens slightly. "You helped my sister when nobody else would. That means something where I come from."

Maria steps forward. "Please, let us take care of you."

The sincerity in her eyes decides it.

"Lead the way," I manage, slipping the revolver into my waistband.

Miguel nods once, then moves to my side, supporting my weight as my knees suddenly decide they're done holding me up.

"I got you," he says, his voice steady. "What's your name?"

"Carlos," I reply, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

"I'm Miguel Santos. This is my sister Maria."

Maria hovers anxiously on my other side, careful not to touch my injured arm.

The world tilts again as we cross the street. Miguel's grip tightens, keeping me upright.

"Our place isn't much," Miguel says as we approach a small, well-kept house with a chain-link fence. "But it's safe."

Safe. The word echoes strangely in my head. Nothing's felt safe since I landed in 1978.

"Just need to stop bleeding," I mumble, the words slurring slightly.

"And you will," Miguel promises, guiding me up three concrete steps to the front door. "You picked the right people to help, Carlos."

As Maria hurries ahead to open the door, I wonder if that's true or if I've just made another mistake. But as weakness grows stronger, I realize I'm out of choices.

Miguel's home is a modest single-story house with worn furniture that's seen better days but remains meticulously clean. Family photos line the walls, and the faint smell of coffee and spices hangs in the air. It feels lived-in, cared for.

"Bathroom's this way," Miguel guides me through a narrow hallway. "Maria, get the first aid kit from under the sink."

I sink onto the closed toilet lid, cradling my injured arm. Blood has soaked through the makeshift bandage, turning the fabric a deep crimson.

"Let me see," Miguel says, his voice surprisingly gentle as he unwraps my arm. His touch is clinical, practiced. When the wound is exposed, he examines it with narrowed eyes. "Not that deep, but long. Basically just a skin damage. You're lucky."

"Doesn't feel lucky," I mutter.

Miguel opens a metal box Maria brings in. "You need stitches."

"You know how?"

A brief smile touches his lips. "Army medic training. Did two years before..." He trails off, focusing on threading a curved needle. "This will hurt."

He's not exaggerating. I bite down hard as the needle pierces my skin, focusing on my breathing. One-two-three-four. Miguel works efficiently, his hands steady.

"Why were those men after your sister?" I ask through gritted teeth, needing distraction from the pain.

Miguel's hands pause momentarily. "Wrong place, wrong time."

The answer comes too quickly, too practiced. He's lying, but I'm in no position to push.

"Coffee's ready," Maria announces from the doorway, her voice still unsteady. She holds three mugs, her hands trembling slightly.

"Gracias, hermana," Miguel says without looking up from his work. "Put his on the counter."

I study Maria as she sets down the mugs. Her movements are precise despite her shaking hands, like someone forcing control. Her eyes keep darting to a photo on the wall, a man in his forties with her same serious eyes.

"Your father?" I ask, nodding toward the picture.

Maria's expression softens. "Yes. He died five years ago."

Miguel ties off the last stitch. "All done. Keep it clean, change the bandage daily." He stands, washing blood from his hands. "Maria, get him some pills."

When she leaves, I lower my voice. "Those guys weren't just random kidnappers"

Miguel's jaw tightens. "I cannot say for certain, but chances are high."

"You in some kind of trouble?"

He applies antiseptic to my wound, the sting making me wince. "Everyone in Little Havana is in some kind of trouble." His eyes meet mine. "Including strangers who aren't afraid to fight Colombian drug dealers."

Fair point. I decide to change tactics.

"Thanks for the medical help," I say, testing my arm's movement. The stitches pull but hold.

"Thank you for saving Maria," he responds, wrapping clean gauze around my arm. "Not many would."

While Miguel packs away his supplies, I reach into my pocket, feeling the future bills. Something doesn't make sense. Why didn't my rewind work during the fight? I need to test it.

I pull out a $7 bill, focusing on the last few seconds. I want to go back to before Miguel started to pack.

The familiar sensation washes over me. Reality bending, folding back on itself. The room blurs, then snaps back into focus. Miguel only just started packing things in bag, exactly as he was seven seconds ago.

It worked. The bills still function. But why not during the fight?

"All set," Miguel says, completely unaware we've just relived this moment twice. "Keep it dry for a few days."

I nod, mind racing. If the money still works, something else interfered during the alley confrontation. Was it the adrenaline? The blood loss? Or something about the ability itself I don't yet understand?

Maria returns with some antibiotics and a glass of water, her movements careful and deliberate. Her dark ponytail swings slightly as she leans forward, and I notice oversized watch sliding down her slender wrist. Probably her dad's.

"You should eat something too," she says, her voice softer than earlier. Her large eyes linger on my bandaged arm, studying Miguel's handiwork with a critical gaze. "The pills work better with food, and you lost blood." She hesitates, as if debating whether to say more, then adds, "I can warm up some leftovers if you want. Nothing fancy, but it'll help."

"That would be great," I reply, swallowing the pills. "Thank you both."

As I sip the strong Cuban coffee, I watch them move around each other with the practiced ease of people who've depended on each other for survival. Whatever trouble they're in, it's serious enough to attract armed kidnappers.

And somehow, I've landed right in the middle of it. But, hey, now I have a gun.