This is from Derrick's Perspective
I'm not one for deep slumbers. My sleep is always light, always alert. The slightest noise can rouse me from my dreams. This night was no different. The distant echo of gunshots, probably two or three miles away, punctuated the silence. I didn't even bother reaching for my gun. They were outside of the safety zone.
As dawn approached, the sounds of people passing by Maria's apartment filtered through the thin walls. My hand instinctively moved to the grip of my gun, my eyes popping open, and I looked for signs of trouble in the closed windows or door, but they moved on without incident. I allowed myself to drift back into the shallow pool of sleep.
Right as I woke up for the day and was about to get up, a soft knock on the door jolted me upright. I sprang from my deflated mattress, my gun in hand, my shirt folded on my shoes next to my pillow.
Moving silently, I approached the door, my gun at the ready as the knocking repeated. I waited for the next knock, then cracked the door open just enough to point the gun through the sliver of space, careful not to reveal the barrel.
The sight of the gun made the little guy from the gate, the one who had escorted us to Maria's apartment, recoil in fear. He stumbled backward, his breath coming in heavy, terrified gasps. I swung the door open fully, lowering my gun to low-ready position. "What do you want?" I asked, my voice gruff from disuse and still lathered with sleep and suspicion.
His eyes darted nervously between the gun in my hand and my bare torso, his words stumbling over each other in his haste, "I need to talk to Rosalina."
"Why?" I demanded, my eyebrow arching in suspicion. "What for?"
Before he could answer, hurried footsteps echoed from behind me. "What is it, Tome? Is someone hurt?" Rosalina's voice was filled with concern.
The door was tugged on, and I let it go. Rosalina appeared at my side, her eyes flicking from the gun in my hand to my face. "Put that away and put on a shirt, you exhibitionist!" She chided before turning to Tome and muttering in Spanish, "Manioso."
I grumbled a response, "No, I'm not," and walked over to where my shirt lay. I pulled it on, my eyes watching closely on what was happening.
Suddenly, a shrill voice cut through the quiet morning air. "Shut the fuck up," Mrs. Bitch's voice rang out from the living room, followed almost immediately by Mr. Allen's quick admonishment, "Don't do that."
Rosalina's head whipped around at the sound, her eyes flashing with irritation, anger, and hatred. She looked like she was about to march into the living room and give Mrs. Bitch a piece of her mind. Instead, she turned to me, throwing her hands up in exasperation before pointing towards the living room as if asking, 'Can you believe this?'
I simply shrugged, a small smile playing on my lips. "You get used to it," I told Rosalina, my voice filled with a resigned acceptance.
As Rosalina and Tome settled at the kitchen table, I sat across from them, my curiosity piqued. I leaned back in my chair, my arms crossed over my chest, looking down at the two of them.
Tome was the first to speak, his voice hushed. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, his fingers trembling slightly. "Sorry to bother you this early, but we have a bit of an issue in the apartments," he began, his eyes flicking between Rosalina and the paper. "Some of our older people aren't doing so well. A few of them have run out of medication. They were supposed to pick them up today or yesterday. Others are going to be out in the next day or two. And then others are just feeling unwell in general. I've got a list of complaints here. Could you help me figure out who needs what?"
Rosalina shook her head, her expression grave. "You need a doctor for that, Tome. Especially for new prescriptions and symptoms. You need a doctor to diagnose and prescribe."
Tome's face fell at her words. He looked down at the paper in his hand silently, his fist clenching around it. "Doctors aren't coming, Rosalina. We've tried to get doctors. We even sent someone to the urgent care place down the street. There's no doctor to help us."
Rosalina sighed, her gaze hard. "You could get the same meds they are already taking for refills," she suggested after a moment's pause. "But I'm not sure if a pharmacy would be open to fill them and if the system would be working to verify prescriptions."
I couldn't help but chime in, a smirk playing on my lips. "You could always use a five-finger discount."
They both shot me a look. Rosalina's was one of annoyance, while Tome's was filled with shame. Rosalina took the list from Tome and placed it in front of herself on the table.
As she perused the list, her brow furrowed in concentration. She made a few comments here and there, her fingers tracing the lines of text. Eventually, she looked up at Tome, her eyes serious. "It might be easier for a medic to go pick these up. Especially if there won't be a pharmacist."
Tome's eyes lit up with hope at her words, but before he could voice his request, I jumped in. "I can go. I'm not a medic, but I can read a label."
Rosalina swiveled her whole body around to face me, her eyes flashing with annoyance. I quickly uncrossed my arms, holding them up in surrender. But before I could react further, she jabbed a finger into the spot where the bullet had grazed me. The sudden pain elicited a yelp from me, though it was less intense than the day before.
"Do you understand why you can't go?" she asked, her tone triumphant. Without waiting for my response, she turned back to Tome. "I'll go with you. That's the best way to help the most people."
I decided against protesting, nursing my aching side.
Tome excused himself, mentioning that he needed to gather a group for protection and get more stuff from the store. I had to admit, my respect for him increased a notch at that.
The apartment began to stir with the morning activity. Maria was the next to emerge, just as Tome stepped out the door. Rosalina quickly filled her in on the situation, which sparked a flurry of protests from Maria in rapid Spanish. However, Rosalina dismissed each one just as quickly in English. Eventually, Maria ran out of steam and ended up hugging Rosalina tightly, with a fervent plea for her to be safe and careful.
The four kids chose that moment to make their appearance, their eyes bright and curious. "When's breakfast?" they chorused. Maria responded with a knowing smile, "Sooner if you help after you get ready for the day." With that, the kids scampered off.
Tome returned as promised, this time with a group of ten men who bore a striking resemblance to him. They were holding empty bags in their arms. Rosalina left with them after a quick good bye.
In her absence, Maria busied herself with house chores. I approached her, asking if there was a place I could securely store my dangerous tools. She nodded and led me to the room she shared with Rosalina, assuring me that the kids knew better than to enter without either of their presence. I placed all my hazardous tools there, feeling a bit more at ease.
A knock on the front door interrupted our rearrangement. We both assumed it was Rosalina. Perhaps she had forgotten something or returned early. I trailed behind Maria as she moved to answer the door. To our surprise, it wasn't Rosalina but a man who looked like he had walked straight out of a casting call for an Alabama hillbilly. He cradled his wrist, his thumb and pointer finger bent at an unnatural angle. A plastic bag filled with cans dangled from his elbow. "Is Rosalina around?" he asked, his voice strained and in pain.
Maria shook her head in response to his question, her face pale and green, eyes wide as she took in the sight of his mangled hand. "She just left, Gator," she managed to say, her voice shaky. "What happened to your hand? It's... it's not supposed to bend like that."
Gator, as he was apparently called, grimaced. "I was working on some stuff and had a bit more sauce than I should've. Slipped and did this," he explained, gesturing to his dislocated hand. He lifted his hat to reveal a nasty bump and bruise on his bald head. "Fell and did this. Tried to get up and ended up doing this." He rolled up his sleeve to reveal a long, oozing gash on his triceps. "Phones ain't working, so I figured I'd come here to get patched up."
Maria turned away, her face ashen. "She's not here, Gator. I don't know when she'll be back." her voice a horse whisper.
"Well, I'm fucked in the ass with a bull's dong," Gator muttered, his face a mask of pain and frustration.
Maria spun around, her face flushed with righteous anger and indignation. She wagged a finger as she spoke loudly, "Gator! You will not use that kind of language in my home!"
He looked down, mumbling a quiet "Sorry."
A chuckle slipped out of me before I could stop it. Maria shot me a glare but didn't say anything else. I offered, "I can help with some basic first aid."
Gator gave me a once-over, his eyes traveling from my feet to my head and back again. "You're a big fella, ain't ya?" He turned to Maria, a smirk playing on his lips as he winked at her. "Is he the upgrade?"
Maria's body stiffened at his words. Anger surged within me, my fist clenching and rising of its own accord. But Maria stopped me, her hand on my fist. "Please don't," she said flatly. "He's racist, crude, and generally unpleasant. But he's not a bad person. He's helped us a lot over the years. We have an understanding."
I let out a deep sigh, forcing the anger back down. I decided to make this as uncomfortable for him as possible while I was treating his injuries and plastered a smile on my face. The biggest shit-eating grin I could make.
Maria invited Gator in, and he took a seat in the same chair that had been my torture spot the day before. She went to fetch Rosalina's medical bag, leaving me alone with Gator.
I rummaged through the medical bag, pulling out a bottle of high-proof rubbing alcohol and the coarsest pad I could find. I set to work on Gator's arm wound, my grip firm and unyielding. He yelped and squirmed, his screams echoing through the apartment and drawing another round of complaints from Mrs. Bitch. I paid her no mind. Mr. Allen wandered over, watching my work with a curious eye.
Once the wound was thoroughly cleaned, I applied tape to keep it closed. I showed Mr. Allen the type of tape to use on wounds, explaining its purpose and how to apply it. Next time, I hope he will be better prepared for treating wounds.
Next, I flicked Gator's hat off his head. He shot me a glare but didn't say anything. The contusion on his head was closed, just a "bump." I informed him it didn't need any treatment, just to keep it clean. I picked up his hat and placed it back on his head, setting it at a crooked angle.
As he raised his good hand to straighten his hat, I quickly reset his dislocated finger and thumb with a swift yank. Gator jumped, hissing in pain and his face turning a deep shade of red. I couldn't help but smirk at his reaction. I turned to Mr. Allen, who was standing there, pale and wide-eyed, staring at me in shock.
Gator finally stopped hissing, glaring at me as he muttered, "Boy, you really are a piece of work. You have no bedside manner."
I shrugged nonchalantly, "You're welcome. What were you working on, anyway?"
"I'm fixing up my old truck," Gator replied, his tone gruff. "A few of the fuses blew, so I was trying to fix them."
My interest was piqued by that. "Oh, need some help with that?" I offered, already imagining the familiar feel of tools in my hands and the smell of oil and grease.
Gator cocked his head at me, his eyes narrowing skeptically. "Do you know how to be a grease monkey?" he asked, his tone doubtful.
I shrugged again, a small smile playing on my lips. "My folks back home have a shop I grew up in."
It's better than sitting around doing nothing.