“No way. Not me.”
Their mother clicked her tongue and muttered, “Next time, it will be one of you.”
Killian prayed there wouldn’t be a next time. His mother’s hands slightly quivered as she dug into the wound.
“The gunpowder spread inside his wound and body. It should’ve been better if it was one single bullet.”
“Too bad we don’t have whiskey or something to clean the wound.”
Silently their mother patched the man up. Her hands shook even harder and fat beads of sweats poured out on her face. Killian picked up some cloth and dabbed them dry.
“I don’t know if it’s going to work,” his mother said, her breath heavy.
“You can do it, Mum. You’re doing great.” He glanced at the man. He looked pale and his damp hair was plastered on his forehead. Sometimes his brows knitted together in pain
