LIGHTS, cold and stark, blasting through my eyelid shone in. “Ma’am, do you know where you are?”

I couldn’t speak. My tongue was limp and dry and moving it was like trying to lift a mattress with one finger. Why was I so weak?

“BP’s 90 over 60,” yelled someone. “She needs blood.”

“Her name is Christina Rogan,” said Konstantin’s voice. I could tell how worried he was because his English was disintegrating. “She’s AB-negative.”

Why would Konstantin know that? Then I realized: for the Bratva families, getting shot was an occupational hazard. Grigory, Konstantin, Christina...they probably all knew their blood types, in case they needed to be patched up by some backstreet doctor.

“Check the records, just to be sure,” someone ordered.

The sound of fevered typing. The lights dimmed as someone leaned over me, comparing my face to a photo. “Yep, that’s her. Records say she is AB-negative.”

“OK, grab some.”

Running footsteps disappearing into the distance. A thought coalesced in my brain, making me uneasy, but it was blurry and indistinct and I couldn’t make sense of it.

Someone was digging their fingers into my leg and it hurt like crazy, but I couldn’t raise the energy to scream. I heard someone move in close to the other side of me and smelled Konstantin’s cologne. Then a big hand lifted mine and squeezed it. I tried to squeeze back, but I was too weak.

Footsteps pounded towards us. “Got the blood!”

This time, my stomach lurched. That was bad. That was wrong. But my brain still wouldn’t work properly—I couldn’t figure out why I was scared.

“Get it in, her pressure’s dropping.”

The metal feet of a drip stand rattled against the tiles as someone struggled to hang a bag on it.

That fear again, shapeless but real. With a monumental effort, I managed to crack my eyes open. I could see the bag swinging above me, heavy with blood.

Christina’s type of blood. But—

But not mine. I was O-negative. My brain finally came awake. The wrong blood will kill me!

Someone had hold of my arm. A needle pricked at me. I tried to pull my arm away in panic.

“She’s waking up!”

“Get the damn IV in, she needs the blood!”

A heavy arm pinned mine to the bed. Then the stab of a needle going in and the sticky pressure of a dressing securing it in place. “Line’s in!”

No! Stop! I tried to yell a warning, but all that came out was a groan.

Konstantin’s voice. “What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s just in pain.”

A pull on the IV needle as the tube from the bag was screwed onto it. “Blood’s going in!”

No, no! I started to thrash. Strong hands held me down. “Ma’am, we’re trying to help you! Lie still!”

Over the doctor’s shoulder, I could see the blood coursing down the transparent tube towards my arm. No!

Konstantin leaned over me. “Golub, what’s wrong?”

The blood reached my arm—

Moving my injured leg made it feel like the glass was stabbing into it all over again. But I cocked it and kicked—and felt one toe just catch the drip stand. My arm exploded in pain as the IV was tugged and then the whole thing was tipping—

“Catch it!” someone yelled. But they were all busy trying to hold me down and—

There was a wet slap as the bag hit the floor.

“Goddammit!” snapped a nurse, glaring at me. “Bag’s burst. And that was the last AB-negative we had.”

“Then get me some O neg!” yelled the doctor.

O neg. O neg is fine. I slumped on the bed, my eyes closing.