“Sam,” Leopold repeated, looking the other man in the eye. “I’ll thank you to do this quickly.”

He knew what would be coming next, that his second experience with whiskey would be far less pleasant than the first, and if his hand gripped Rose’s before the alcohol met his wound, well, perhaps some things were forgivable under the circumstances.

It hurt exactly as much as he had expected it to, and only by clamping his jaw shut by main force could he keep from crying out. The sting had hardly passed when Sam put the bottle down and reached for something just out of Leopold’s view. He could feel it shortly, though, but the bullet was found quickly with a minimum of digging, for which Leopold felt intensely grateful.

He knew that the wound could not remain open, knew that there would be a needle involved in the proceedings at some point, but this one felt red hot every time it entered his flesh. He listened to Sam’s reassurances, but the man seemed to be speaking from very far away.

Leopold took a firm grip on the shreds of consciousness remaining in the pain- and alcohol-induced haze that was quickly suffusing his brain. “Thank you,” he breathed. “Both of you, thank you.”