“There’s pain,” River said, as if the blood trickling from her shoulder wasn’t her own. She stared at the medical bay door, beyond Simon. Perhaps beyond Serenity.
“I have some Propoxyn.”
Simon glanced up from his neat row of stitches for a sign that she’d heard him. There was none. Her eyes remained distant.
Then, slowly, her hands rose to the height of her shoulder.
He handed her the clamp and curved needle, careful to avoid pulling on the sutures as he did so. She took them. He removed his gloves and opened the nearest drawer.
It wasn’t a large bullet wound, but if he ever found the thug responsible, he’d pay Jayne to do what Jayne did best. Quietly. Permanently.
River’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“He didn’t mean to hurt her.”
Simon retrieved the vial and syringe. He closed the drawer with more force than necessary.
“But he did.”
“Inconsistent barometric pressure and wind speed contributed to inaccurate bullet penetration.” River looked over at him. “He was aiming for you.”
“I know,” Simon said. “I’m still not sure he missed.”