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Summary
“Look, Morty, it isn't – eugh – that bad – quit bein' a pussy-”
“Rick! How can you say i-it's not that bad, it's my hand! It's not there any more, that's r-really bad, oh m-man-”
“We'll get home, getcha all stitched up, Morty, you'll be – shit, keep your eyes open, Morty, don't give up, Morty, just keep 'em – eugh – keep 'em open-”
“There's s-so m...much blood, Rick,” Morty moaned, sweat beading on his pale forehead and covering his face in an unhealthy sheen. Rick glanced over from the driver's seat and felt a stab of real fear in his stomach; his attempts to keep Morty from panicking, to act normal, were falling flat at the sight of a bloody, twisted stump where Morty's hand should have been, the blood drenching his clothes and soaking through the cloth Morty was desperately pressing to the gushing wound.