Work detail sucked. Murphy nearly considered going back to Camp Jaha, if only to escape his godawful shift. Sure, Monroe and her posse would probably drag his sorry ass back, but it’d be worth it. He was sick of reinforcing the outer wall, and he was sick of spending his day caked with dirt. Hell, he honestly didn’t think his shift could get any shittier, but nope – some idiot kid proved Murphy wrong when they nearly impaled him on some serrated scrap metal. Their stuttered apology fell on deaf ears; Murphy threw them to the ground out of spite, and then clutched his own chest. Damn it. His wound was short and deep, and bled darkly.
Spurred on by an early dismissal from work, Murphy staggered into the stakru’s impromptu medical tent and fumbled around for something to stop the bleeding. He grabbed handfuls of nearby fabric, bunching it up and pressing it to his dripping chest. A dull, throbbing pain pervaded the entire front of his body, and in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to kill the kid responsible for his injury.
The tent flap opened; the sound of a newfound presence barely registered before Murphy spun around, glaring. He’d expected that stupid kid to come crawling back with a pathetic apology. Instead, his gaze fell upon another Arker. Huh. Murphy had seen him around before, but had never talked to him.
“That kid stab you too?”
