"Get off me—who are you?"
A hand clamped at Minerva's ankle. She yanked, rolled, and one good kick sent dirt flying. The hand slid away and she stumbled up, lungs burning, eyes catching a pale face in the ditch by the weeds.
"Hey!" she barked. "Stay conscious."
He blinked, lips split, a smear of blood along his temple. One side of his face looked small and boyish. The other side had a set jaw that would cut glass when he used it. He moaned and tried to push up like a kitten testing a broken leg.
"Don't move your neck unless you like being paralyzed," Minerva snapped, because the Harbor City Military Institute had drilled that into her in a heartbeat. She moved fast. Fingers to pulse, wipe the dirt aside, pinch skin to see if he flinched.
"Name?" she asked.
No answer. He stared at the sky, pupils blown, mouth forming a vowel.
"Of course you don't want to cooperate." She cursed. "Of course you don't have a phone."
She scanned the empty road. No signal poles, just scrub and the highway a mile away, where headlights already cut like knives at the horizon.
"Stay quiet. Try to breathe," she said, and started hauling.
He went over her shoulder like a sack of laundry. The improvised carry was clumsy and ridiculous. She muttered bandage instructions aloud—compress, hold, don't let him sleep if he loses consciousness. Talking kept her focused and kept him
