He looks so peaceful, passed out on the bed, his brow smooth and unfurrowed. Me? I have to bite back a cry of panic as I watch him lose consciousness. I know even if he remained conscious he couldn’t exactly help me do the stitches. I also know it’s far better for him to be down under the force of strong painkillers during what I’m about to do to him. But now that he’s asleep, I feel so incredibly alone.

I’ve already messed up, grabbing him a bottle of bourbon with my gloved hands. They’re not so germ-free anymore. I throw that pair out and snap on another pair. He’s got a bunch.

Tentative, I touch his shoulder. The gauze has some sort of powerful clotting substance on it. The bleeding has slowed. I wish I could keep him exactly like this, that those little gauze squares are all he needs to heal. But I know it's going to take more than that.

In all his supplies, he has something called a stitch kit. Of course he does. He’s a survivalist, all set up with everything he needs to live on his own. The little black bag has all kinds of bandages and wipes, plus scalpels, sutures, scissors and a needle. The one I have to thread and use on Knox.

My stomach turns over and I wonder if I’m going to wretch. That wouldn’t be good. That bottle of Jim Beam calls to me to steel my nerves, but I resist. All I need is to get a little tipsy to make this whole process go south.

I’ve never been what you’d call good with blood. Blood is not my friend. I’ve never considered a career in medicine. But now isn't the time for whining and feeling reluctant. Now is the time to step up and save Knox's life.

My hands are shaking so bad it's hard to thread the needle, especially as my thoughts keep reminding me what that needle’s about to go through. But Knox looks so vulnerable lying there. He needs me. I steel my resolve.

The first puncture makes me wince. I freeze, waiting for him to wake up with a roar. Mercifully, he doesn't. He continues to lie in a peaceful slumber, his breathing heavy and steady.

Still, I try to work quickly, for his own sake as much as mine. The stitches are anything but even, zig-zagging across his torn flesh as if I'm trying to make the Frankenstein monster. But I'm closing his wounds, stopping the bleeding, wearing sterile gloves and using an antiseptic pad, so hopefully I’m doing more good than harm.

I'm certainly praying more than I ever have in my life, especially considering the fact that I’m not much of a prayer. Growing up, my mother hadn't taken us to church much. I don't even know any specific prayers to recite. What comes out is more like a mash of pleading. Please may I do a good job. Please may he be all right.

He has to be all right.

The stitching doesn't take too long, about 10 minutes, but when I finally knot and cut the strand, I sink back into the chair as if I've run a marathon. Knox stays down the whole time. He’s such a tough guy. With all his military training, I almost wonder if he has the ability to self-induce a coma.

I bandage the entire area, probably with too much gauze but I figure it can’t hurt. Now if only I had my cell phone. The timer on it would be perfect for the next 72 hours, waking me if I doze, making sure Knox never misses his meds. Even without the phone, I’ll make sure he doesn’t miss any, either the antibiotics or the painkillers.

The first four hours pass relatively quickly. I have a lot of cleaning up to do, what with the blood all over the floor and bathroom, plus bandages and gloves and what’s left of his shirt to dispose of. Three and a half hours in, he starts to stir, a deep moan coming from his throat. He’s shifted to his side, the one that’s not wounded. Tentative, I touch his forehead. It’s hot.

Swearing, I grab a washcloth and dampen it with cool water. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do, dab his forehead to refresh him? I know nothing about medical care. Come to think of it, I feel like whenever I’ve seen someone dabbing a forehead in a movie it’s always a period piece set in the Middle Ages or Victorian England, right before the patient dies or the “doctor” brings in leeches.

I put down the cloth and reach for the antibiotics. Fever means Knox has an infection. I think. Or maybe it’s the body’s natural reaction to trauma? For the thousandth time that day, I wish I had Internet access. I could search and learn about wound care, though I’d probably also turn up a million horror stories I’d wish I’d never seen. As it is, I have nothing to go on but the protocol he laid out: two antibiotic pills every eight hours, two painkillers every four.

How am I supposed to administer them to this giant? I can’t exactly lift Knox up so he can sip some water. The question answers itself as he moans and shifts to lay on his back. When he puts weight on his wounds, he lifts his head and his eyes open in pain. I’m right there with pills and water. He accepts them with unseeing eyes, then falls back again onto his good side into a deep sleep.

The next couple of days pass in much the same fashion, me hovering by his side feeling useless and worried, punctuated with brief moments of stress to administer his medication. I’m only dimly aware of the fact that we’ve been hit by a big snowstorm. Mountain man that Knox is, he’d already carried in cords and cords of wood well before it hit. All I have to do is keep feeding logs into the stove.

Snow will make it harder to drive out to a hospital if I have to. But snow also protects us, providing a shield against anyone interested in finding us. I don’t know how secure this cabin really is. Knox said no one knows about it, but aren’t professional criminals pretty good at extracting information others don’t want them to discover? I never felt frightened of the mob when Knox was awake and with me. But with him passed out, the hours stretching on, I feel my vulnerability keenly.

I only take his temperature a couple of times because I don’t want to disturb him, and I don’t want to obsess. He told me it’s at 72 hours that it really matters. But every time I touch his forehead it’s either warm or hot.

The second night is the worst. Forty-eight hours and he’s burning up, sweating, tossing in bed and calling out like he’s reliving some kind of hell. I figure it must be from when he was in the military, some kind of raid gone wrong. I run my fingers through his hair and rub his good shoulder, telling him I’m here, it’s all right. He grabs my forearm so hard his fingers might leave bruises.

“Not Olivia,” he growls, fierce and protective. “Not her.”

If I had a doubt left, it’s gone. Knox saved me. He did what he had to do to keep me safe, at his own expense.

Now it’s my turn to save him.