Marcus blinked, then tucked his face back into Keisha’s sweater.
Tommy smiled anyway.
In the living room, one of the younger men sat down hard on her couch like his legs couldn’t hold him anymore.
Keisha finally saw the dark stain spreading across his jeans.
Blood.
Mike nodded toward him. “That’s Danny. He went down on the ice about ten miles back.”
Keisha didn’t think.
She moved.
She grabbed her plastic first-aid box from under the sink—half-empty, cheap bandages, antiseptic that stung like fire.
She knelt by Danny’s leg.
Danny’s teeth were chattering so hard he could barely speak.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped. “We didn’t mean—”
“Don’t,” Keisha cut in, voice tight. “Just hold still.”
She peeled the fabric back. The cut was ugly. Deep.
Keisha cleaned it with shaking hands and wrapped it tight.
The whole room went silent, twenty-five men watching her like she was doing something sacred.
