by Periwinkle

They used to keep track. Who had the most injuries, who had the most concussions, the most gun wounds. The count wasn’t kept on paper, but by the First Aid box: the number of bandages, slings and aspirin used.

Somewhere in the middle of the double digits, they lost count. They no longer knew who had been hurt the most, who had treated whom, who was in the hospital. It became less about the injuries and more about the feel of the other’s hands, succoring them, giving them love in the healing.

It became just one count. Alive? Two people.