Book Confessions of an Ex-Ballerina

Arsan packed snow around the wound to cool it down and keep it from swelling. “The bleeding has stopped.”

I didn't care. “I hate you.”

“I know.” He moved away from me, back to his side of the fire. I didn't speak to him for the rest of the evening. I wanted him to know how mad I was at him, but soon the guilt set in. What he had done for me probably saved my life. An infection would have come in a day or two, then a fever. I wouldn't last more than a week after that. When I finally talked some sense into myself, I was too embarrassed to try and speak to him. What an idiot I had become.

I curled up on the ground with my back to the fire, bunched my pack up under my head and pulled my blanket up under my chin. That’s when I saw it, a flash of red just inside the ring of light cast by the fire. It was quick. Maybe I was seeing things. I had no idea what I had seen, but my mind was numb and exhausted. I watched for a while, straining my eyes to see into the darkness, but nothing showed itself. After a while my eyes couldn't stay open. Dreams of warmth and shelter overtook me. I was asleep.