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"Ellie. Shit, okay. Ellie?" Tommy's hands are on her arms between the shoulder and the elbow before she even realizes he's arrived. "Ellie, look at me darlin'. You okay? You hurt?"
She stares at him, bewildered.
"Ellie," he repeats. "Answer me, sweet pea. Were you hurt? Did you get hit?"
Her mind sluggishly works through his questions. Is she hurt? She doesn't think she's hurt. Hit? With what? Her mind supplies the pop-pop-pop of handgun-fire and her body jumps as if the sound is in the present, instead of moments ago, in the dining hall, as an argument between two townsfolk came to a violent end.
Tommy's grip tightens until she's drawn into his arms, in a hug, until her damp, cool face is pressed to the buttons on his shirt. So crisp, his shirts, not worn like Joel's. She wonders if that's his preference or if it's something to do with Maria. She can feel Tommy's voice rumbling away beneath her cheek, but she's already decided she's a) not hurt, and b) not hit, so she can't imagine she needs to tune in to any more questions.
He folds her from a two-armed hug into a one-armed squeeze, wedging her into his armpit like she's a crutch. Except she's the one doing the leaning and he's the one doing the propping, steering, supporting. He guides her through the chaos of the dining hall and out of the building just as Joel careens into view.
"Ellie!" His voice is louder than Tommy's more urgent, making her shy violently, like Shimmer in a windstorm. Joel is oblivious, hands patting her down much like she were the horse and not his kid, not his kid who is propped against his brother on a sunny afternoon, commanding both their attention when there's not even anything wrong with her -
"Shit." Joel is holding up two red palms and Ellie sees white. Is Joel hurt? How did Joel get hurt? He wasn't even here when the shooting -
Then Tommy moves and Ellie tips over. Tommy goes down with her, sitting right there on the grass with Ellie propped between his knees, while Joel, white-faced and wild-eyed, pulls at Ellie's shirt - pulls at her shirt -
She trusts Joel. She does. More than she could imagine trusting anybody, more than she even trusts herself. Except her head's not right and his hands are red and she hears the pop - pop - pop in the back of her mind on loop, and she cannot tolerate someone tugging at her clothing. Ellie screams, except it comes out this pitiful sort of breathy whine, and Joel's hands on the hem of her shirt still as his eyes capture hers, just for a moment.
Tears slide from his as his gaze holds her. "It's just me, baby. Please let me help. Please."
A breath. Another. And a nod. He lifts her shirt, which feels weird and sticky like she's spilled something on herself. His hands slide around on her belly, slick with whatever it is she's spilled. Tommy's petting her hair, whispering words that she eventually makes out are in Spanish. She hasn't learned much of it yet, but she hears ¡Dios mio! and she wonders whether he's swearing or praying.
Joel deflates suddenly, sobbing out a breath, tears increasing. He's crying openly, right there in the street.
"Joel?" Tommy prompts.
"Just a graze," he sobs. "Just a graze. She's all right, Tommy. She's all right. You're all right, my baby girl." He gathers her out of Tommy's arms into his own, clutching onto her with both hands. She tries to clutch back, but she has no strength and she's starting to shake and something fucking hurts down along her side where Joel was looking.
"Come on, then," Tommy says after a minute. "Let's get her to the clinic, hermano, let them do their work. She might need a stitch or two." He kisses Ellie's hair. "You might get a cool scar out of it, my little badass."
"Chicks dig scars," Ellie says, echoing something Riley once said. Dimly, she realizes this is the first time she's actually spoken since her uncle found her, and what a weird first thing to say. But both brothers are laughing weakly, relieved and exhausted, at her words.
Ellie winds her arms around Joel's neck and lets him lift her. She can feel the trembling in his arms, like he's been lifting something heavy or working long hours in the bitter cold or burning with fever in a basement. Fear makes her mouth taste funny and she makes a small noise of distress, and both Tommy and Joel whisper their own versions of reassurance to her. Tommy holds the door open and Joel brings her into the clinic and Maria's already there, gone rigid at the sight of them.
"How bad?" she demands swiftly.
"Just a graze," Tommy says, helping Joel arrange Ellie on the nearest bed. The small clinic is overrun with chaos, the lone doctor and her volunteers trying to tend the three wounded in the shoot-out. The lights are too bright and there are too many strangers. Ellie won't let go of Joel and neither one of them have stopped shaking yet.
"Ellie?" Maria kneels to look in her face, smoothing her hair back with a cool hand. "Honey, can I look at your side?" She does, deftly, and then returns to Ellie's line of sight, this time not touching, now that her hands are bloody. "Okay, Ellie, the doctor's going to get to you as soon as she can, but she's got her hands full right now. Would you rather wait for her or do you want me to stitch you and get you out of here quicker? It might scar if I do it, I'm no expert, but I can keep your insides on the inside, as your uncle would say."
Ellie nods about fifty times, suddenly unable to stop nodding. Out of here. Yes. Good plan. Joel, still trembling beneath her palms, concurs.
Then there is ice and a needle and Ellie fights valiantly to stay calm and still in front of Maria and all the others in the clinic, and the only way to stay still is not to breathe at all, and then Ellie is waking up, woozy and gasping for air, against the crook of Tommy's elbow while Joel frantically pats her face.
"Come back, baby girl. There you are. You have to breathe, baby."
She takes a breath and it comes out traitorously in a sob, and then she is sobbing and she can't stop, because there are hands on her, and lights on the ceiling, and a needle looming, and pop pop pop in the back of her mind, and it occurs to her, sluggishly and after the fact, that Joel's hands were shaking not out of cold or exertion or fever but out of fear. She remembers belatedly that Sarah died bloody in his arms from a gunshot wound. Pain and guilt ricochet through her at the realization of what she's put Joel through.
"I'm sorry," she gasps, which is the first thing she's said other than Chicks dig scars.
"Ssh," Joel soothes, and holds her still as Maria's deft hands resume their work. There is tugging and pressure but the pain is distant, muted. She thinks maybe Maria gave her something numbing. She thinks maybe she's going to go to sleep again soon.
She jerks awake.
She's in her own bed, Joel asleep beside her. She's tucked into her covers and he's on top of them, arm under his face, eyes moving rapidly beneath his eyelids. It's a noise that woke her, she realizes as he makes it again. A small, distressed noise that breaks her heart.
She's awake enough and with-it enough now to feel some pain, and she pokes experimentally at her side, but she's bandaged up. She's not too worried about it. She trusts Maria more than any doctor. She's more worried about Joel, who makes the noise again. She leans over and pats his face experimentally, and he leaps awake with a gasp, sudden, painful, eyes wildly roving.
Ellie isn't sure what to do. But she knows what Joel does when their roles are reversed, so she reaches out, takes Joel's hand, and presses it to her chest.
"I'm right here," she says, feeling a little bit silly and a little bit scared. "I'm right here, Joel. It's okay. Just breathe like me."