"Okay." She breathes. Slim finger comb through pale hair as she assesses the wound on her boyfriend's leg. The bullet had entered through the fatty part of his thigh, and had exited clean out the other side. Nothing major was hit, but the blood wouldn't stop flowing. Her eyes searched his face; his closed eyes, half-opened mouth. "Okay." With a jerk of her arms she shook her jersey off, then shredded it into inch-thick strips. "Just stop the bleeding, Becka. We'll find the shooter later."