Would you call it a family?

Wounded Warrior

I admit I was wrong about the motorcycle thing. The ride is pretty enjoyable, at least until we start getting shot at. Then suddenly I'm anxious all over again, big surprise. I hug my arms tighter around Root's chest as she swerves the vehicle left and right. To be honest, I'm not even paying attention to the road. I bury my face in Root's shoulder, terrified for both our lives, and wonder how noticeable my trembling is.

"Danni!" I hear her shout. There's a sharp pain in the back of my shoulder. Everything goes black. I can see my parents' faces again...

"Danica, it's okay." I loosen my grip on her and realize we've stopped, and we're in another parking lot. Both of us get up off the bike. The pain in my shoulder becomes more apparent and sore.

"You got shot. But it's okay, I'll-" She pauses. "I'll fix it." "What... Who were those people? What did they want? Are we safe?" "Danica, I know you must have so many questions, but we can't talk about it right now. Not here." I nod, although a little irritated, but too shaken up to say anything. "So where are we?" I ask finally, looking around the empty parking garage. "Near a motel just outside of Manhattan." "What? Why did we leave the city? What was wrong with that other place?" But Root doesn't seem to be listening, she's fumbling with something inside her jacket. "Root!" She looks at me.

"Take off your shirt." "Excuse me?" She sighs. "I have to clean the wound, and I'll probably be able to get the bullet out myself, but if I can't..." Her voice trails off again. "What?" "Then I'll have to take you to Shaw."

I unsurely follow her order as she moves closer with a bottle of rubbing alcohol. "Hold still," Root says, and then hastily adds, "this is going to burn." She continues to pour the contents of the bottle onto a piece of cloth, and then moves the strap of my tank top away from the injury.

I grit my teeth as the liquid seeps into the wound, enduring the burning pain surging through my shoulder. I don't even notice myself grabbing Root's hand, not even to stop her, but to silently plead for a sort of strange comfort. She gives my hand a squeeze and a look of sympathy, which I assume is rare.

And then proceeds with my shoulder. "First gunshot wound?" She quips, as she attempts to grab the bullet with tweezers. I smile weakly. "This wasn't supposed to happen." I look at her. "This," she says when she sees my gaze of confusion. "You getting shot. She hadn't planned this. We weren't even supposed to leave Manhattan." "So why did we?" Root is silent. "She's dying," she says sadly, and her eyes meet mine.

Of course I have no idea what she's talking about, but nonetheless I want to comfort her, hold her and take her hands in mine and tell her it'll be okay. And then I wonder where that came from. I was never the most affectionate person, but now I find that I'm longing for my arms to be wrapped around Root again. Finding that the two of us could quite possibly have chemistry, and if we do then I definitely want to be with her.

"Got it," Root says, and my thoughts are interrupted. "I got the bullet out." I don't say anything for a moment. "Oh. Um... thanks. Thank you."

She takes a step back and inspects me quickly. "You think you're alright to walk just to the motel?" I nod, attempting to stand. "Here," Root says, and hands me my shirt. I give a weak smile and take it from her. "Thanks," I say. "But it's covered in blood." "Then take this." She takes off her leather jacket and gently wraps it around my shoulders. "Just until we get there."