She lowered him to the bed, putting a pillow under his head. “What is it?” she asked.
“Get me a drink, honey,” he mumbled, his mouth suddenly very dry.
Unsteadily, she ran into the other room, and returned with a bottle and glass. She poured him a stiff whisky, and held his head while he drank. The spirit knitted his will, and he managed to grin.
“Get my things off, baby,” he said. “I ran into a handful of slugs.”
Undressing him took time. She had to let him rest every now and then, but she finally got down to his shirt, and the caked blood nearly made her faint.
Duffy said, “Don’t get scared.” He felt a lot stronger. “I don’t think it’s bad. It just hurts a lot.”
She ran into the bathroom and came back with dressing, water and towels. She had to cut away his shirt. He had six pellet-holes down his right side. They had ceased to bleed. She stood looking at them, her eyes big and scared.
He said, “Listen, baby. You gotta get them out.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I don’t know how.”
“Got some tweezers? You fix your eyebrows, don’t you?” His mouth twisted into a little grin. “Try with those.”