Blood alone

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I was hot, and my head hurt. Heat shimmered up from the ground and sat thick on my chest. Dust blew in under the loose canvas flaps, riding a warm breeze that died as soon as it hit me, leaving a thin layer of dirty yellow-brown grit to settle into layers of khaki cloth and bright white bandages oozing pink.

Pain sent sharp stabbing messages to my brain, coming from somewhere on my left arm. I lifted it so I could see, the weight of my own hand heavy in the pressing heat. A thick dressing was wrapped around it below the elbow. A thin line of blood had soaked through the bandage. I touched my head, feeling gauze over a sticky gob. A cut on the head is never as bad as it looks, someone once told me. Who? I couldn't remember, but I liked the idea. It can't be too bad, I thought. A conk on the noggin and stitches in my forearm. The arm didn't hurt much but my head felt like one of those things you hammer into wood was stuck in it. What was that word? You bought them for a penny a sack. Nails. That's it; my head felt like it had a nail in it, a red-hot one at that.

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