Dimly, through eyes that were mere slits of red, he saw the white face of the girl. White as the pillow against the mass of black hair. He lifted her head and held the cup against the lips that seemed drained of blood.
“The pain--the pain. . .”
“Hell, ain’t it? But that drink’ll do you good.”
He went back into the other room and handed Pete his cup.
“Here’s luck, Pete. Down ’er. More where that come from.”
Sam gulped down his drink without a grimace. His brain seemed to be clearing.
“Where do you keep your pencil and paper, Pete?”
“That shelf. God, Sam, if we could only do somethin’ to help her.”
“Keep your shirt on.” Sam found the writing pad and pencil. He handed them to the crippled man.
“Write a note to the doctor, Pete. Tell it scary.” Sam pulled on his cap again. “I’ll be ready by the time you git it wrote.”