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It hurt to open his eyes, even more so to see the look on John’s face.
Where were they? He blinked, John’s apartment coming in to focus from the center of John’s bed.
“How did we get here?”
“You should rest.”
“Report, Mr. Reese.”
John sat a little taller in the chair. “Gave you mouth to mouth. Splinted your arm. Bound my wounds to slow blood loss. Buried Tyson. Made a travois from our buttoned coats and dragged you back down the hill to the car.” Finch could see the bandage on Reese’s arm, another across the side of his neck, as he gestured at Finch’s cast. “Dr. Tillman finished up… Sorry about your pen.”
“What?”
“I broke your Montblanc, thought I might have to trach you.”
Finch resisted the urge to check his neck for holes. “Wait, buried Tyson?”
“He broke your arm for fun.” John’s face went blank. “I didn’t get the joke.”
Memories flooded Finch’s brain. “Tyson shot you twice but you never stopped advancing... Please be more careful, John.”
“I die first, Harold. That’s the deal.” He covered Finch’s uninjured hand with his own, intertwining their fingers. “I wouldn’t survive being the survivor, not this time.”
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