riptide- outer banks

126 | woulda, coulda, shoulda

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He didn't know if he'd survive this.

His fingertips gripped the ground, dipping into the sand around him. Propping himself up was exhausting, but if he didn't do it, the pain was worse. Way worse. If he held his body up and took short, strained breaths, it was manageable. He couldn't sit normally. He couldn't lie down. All that he could do was hold himself up and hope that the pain didn't kill him.

Rafe sat next to him and Kori was on his other side. John B, Pope, Cleo, and Kie were across the small fire they'd lit. No one said anything. Besides the crackle of the flames, it was silent. Kori and John B hadn't found anything. Not a boot. Not an article of clothing. Not even a body. Just small crabs and shells lining the shore. Sarah and JJ weren't here.

Somehow, he hadn't lost it. He'd kept it together last night, just like she'd asked him to. And now, there was nothing left to lose. No fuel left in his system to burn anything down, including himself.

"Maybe they just washed up further down the beach." John B voiced, eyes glassy. "We just gotta keep looking."

"We'll look at first light." Kiara reassured him.

All he could do was nod.

Logan inhaled, struggling to keep his expression from twitching in pain. It was hell to talk. It was hell to sit. It was hell to breathe. But the worst kind of hell, the one that he was in right now, was a world that Sarah wasn't in. A world where she was dead and he just had to keep going on like it was a habitable environment. It wasn't. Not without her.

Pope eyed him from where he stood, palms resting on his knees. "How's the pain? Scale from one to ten?"

Brow raising, he squinted at him. "2.5."

Pope's lips parted as he nodded once. "Okay. You broke the scale then." He realized, plopping down to the sand to better look at him.

"What's da verdict, Boss Man? He gonna live?" Cleo questioned.

Kori glanced at her with a frown. "Funny."

"No, that's a perfectly reasonable question actually." Pope pointed out.

Kiara stared at him. "Why?"

"Well, first of all, he's got two cracked ribs." He tilted his head. "Probably. I don't know that for sure. But that poses a number of risks."

Rafe's gaze lifted, not his head. "Like?"

Pope exhaled. "Well, if he has cracked ribs, everything will hurt. Talking, walking..." He sent him a dismal look. "Sleeping."

Logan softly sighed. "Great."

"You said 'risks.'" Kori recalled, heart thudding in her chest. "What other risks, Pope?"

He lifted his nose up, mind filling with the things he'd studied over the years. "Well, looking at the gash, there's the possibility of an infection. We'll have to keep it clean. And if he's not careful, he could lacerate his lung, his liver, or his spleen with one wrong move. Then there's the risk of a pneumothorax– a collapsed lung. That's pretty much fatal since we're in Morocco and have no access to any type of medical facility or–"

"POPE–"

"Okay, sorry. Sorry." He remarked, raising his hands up.

"So what does all of that mean?" John B asked, glancing at him.

"It means I'm sidelined." Logan said, voice coming out hard.

Pope slowly nodded his head. "Yeah. So no running. Like, at all. Don't lift anything either. Every move you make needs to be careful. No harsh movements. And definitely no fighting." He racked his brain, thinking of anything else that might've been helpful. "Probably don't laugh either. If your rib punctures your lung, air will leak into your chest cavity and you won't be able to breathe."