In a few minutes, I found both bullets and pulled them out. I quickly pressed Neil's shirt against the wounds to stop any excessive bleeding that might occur. I looked up at Neil's face, and he seemed fine now—not as pale as a man with blood loss should be. I eased up on my pressure and checked the wound — no excessive bleeding, but strangely, the wounds had perfectly healed. There was no way this should be possible, yet I was seeing it with my own eyes. Neil was no longer bleeding; even the tiniest tear was nowhere to be found. It was as if he had never been hurt in the first place. I touched the spots where the bullet holes were supposed to be, to be sure I was not hallucinating, but it was smooth.
Before I could withdraw my mind from its far places, Neil's arms curled around me. Yet again, I felt the rush of helplessness, the sinking yielding, the surging tide of warmth that left me limp. I didn’t know what to think — Neil's body close to mine as we sat on the floor; someone who wa
