Page 55 of Nicoletta
He rips open more gauze, then holds it firmly to her side, and this time she doesn’t flinch. I don’t know what to think about that.
When he lifts the gauze, the bleeding has slowed. “Also lucky you didn’t hit any arteries.”
Nicoletta’s eyes are trained on Callahan like they’re the only two in the room.
Callahan lifts a syringe off the tray. “This is going to sting, then it’s going to burn.
NICOLETTA
The doctor’s voice floats just above me. I know every word he’s saying, but it’s like he’s talking to someone else in the room.
The initial prick of the needle is bearable, but the promised burning is overwhelming. A groan I didn’t plan creeps up my throat.
“I know,” Callahan’s steady, knowing voice calms me. “The epinephrine is the worst. The next few shots you won’t feel at all. Promise.” His lips quirk up, and for some reason I believe him.
This tall, lanky stranger, dressed in worn jeans and a faded t-shirt advertising the bar has kind eyes and a thick, braided ponytail halfway down his back.
“We’ll give it a minute for the shots to set in, then we’ll continue.” Callahan’s eyes shift to Bolt. “Don’t you know better than to get a girl like this shot?”
My tired brain examines his words, but he doesn’t say them with malice, more like intrigue.
“Yeah, that’s a long fuckin’ story,” Bolt answers.
Callahan shakes his head. “It usually is with you.”
He moves back to the table and presses two fingers against the wound. “Feel that?”
I shake my head. Miraculously, the intense burning and overall pain has subsided too.
He makes a few more injections I don’t feel, then exchanges that syringe for a larger one. “Now we clean it. Most important thing I’ll do.”
“Really?” I like that he’s talking and telling me what he’s doing.
“Bullet isn’t what usually kills people—it’s the infection if we don’t clean it out good.”
The only thing I feel is the pressure of the fluid being washed over my side. He does this many times, then picks up forceps, angles the light closer, and examines the wound.
“Gotta make sure there’s no fibers or anything else that doesn’t belong inside you.”
Callahan works in silence for a stretch. Clean, deliberate movements. No wasted motion. Whatever brought him to the back room of a nameless Long Beach bar, his hands have not forgotten what they were trained to do. This man is hardly the quack or renegade I imagined.
“Why aren’t you practicing in a hospital or regular office?” I ask.
"The state of California disagreed with me on a technicality."
"What technicality?"
"The kind that has a file number and a court date attached to it.”
I feel more pressure, then a rhythmic, methodical tugging and cutting of sutures. The thought makes me queasy, so I keep talking. "What did you do?"
He’s quiet for a moment. At the end of the table, Bolt shifts his weight.
"I treated people who needed treating," Callahan says finally. "The wrong people, according to the licensing board. People who couldn't walk into an ER for the same reasons you're lying on my pool table right now instead of lying in an emergency room in Santa Monica." He reaches for a sealed packet. "Medicine is supposed to be about the patient. It took me too long to accept the institution doesn't always agree."
I stare at the watermarks in the ceiling. "Does it bother you?" I ask. "What you gave up?"
"Every day," he says simply. "Now hold still. This part requires your full cooperation.”
