Kneeling down, he found
Davey's hand and followed it up to his shoulder, his neck. Slick with
blood. Higher, to Davey's face, his forehead, the dent there sanded
ragged by the rough side of the geode. The blood flowed freely and
beneath his other hand Danny's chest heaved as he breathed, shallowly,
rapidly, almost panting.
His vision was coming back now. He took off his T-shirt and wadded it
up, pressed it to Davey's forehead. They'd done first aid in class. You
weren't supposed to move someone with a head injury. He pressed down
with the T-shirt, trying to stanch the blood.
Then, quick as a whip, Davey's head twisted around and he bit down,
hard, on Alan's thumbtip. Albert reeled back, but it was too late: Davey
had bitten off the tip of his right thumb. Alan howled, waking up
Ed-Fred-Geoff, who began to cry. Davey rolled away, scampering back into
the cave's depths.
Alan danced around the cave, hand clamped between his thighs,
mewling. He fell to the floor and squeezed his legs together, then
slowly brought his hand up before his face. The ragged stump of his
thumb was softly spurting blood in time with his heartbeat. He struggled
to remember his first aid. He wrapped his T-shirt around the wound and
then pulled his parka on over his bare chest and jammed his bare feet
into his boots, then made his way to the cave mouth and scooped up snow
under the moon's glow, awkwardly packing a snowball around his hand.
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