16
“Are we close?” Paddy moaned. “I’m tired of listening to you
crows snipe at each other.”
“Almost there.” I hitched myself up higher to better balance
Paddy’s weight. The shift made him moan again as we dragged
him farther down the street. Nick and I kept our heads bent, do-
ing our best to avoid the curious looks pointed in our direction.
“All right,” Nick played along. “What don’t I know?”
He was always quick to ignore me when I spouted out medical
facts, but the quivering in his lower lip made me speak faster.
“Blood accounts for about eight percent of a human’s weight. The
average Joe like you has twelve pints pumping through his veins.”
Nick stumbled and all the color drained from his cheeks. As
the oldest boy in the MacCarthy clan he was supposed to be the
toughest, but even the slightest injury, bruise, or deep cut made
his hulking body shiver.
Lucky for himwe turned the corner at 19th Avenue or I would
have told him bile is almost the same color as the stewMam served
every Sunday evening.
Nick stumbled to a halt. “Where’s Doc Maloy’s sign?”
I ignored him and dragged Paddy the last few steps. His weight
grew heavier by the minute. He was complaining of nausea now.
We didn’t have a minute to spare.
After two quick raps on the white door, it swung open. A
woman hovered in the threshold. Her short gold hair curled
around her ears. Small drops of what looked like dried blood
coated the sleeves of her white coat.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Doc Maloy here?” Nick leaned in and surveyed the open room
cluttered with a few wood chairs, a worn green velvet sofa, and a
narrow wood desk covered in books, bottles, and paperwork. It
