The shelves blocked out almost all light, but Malloy made the kid as well as he could; he was stretched out on the concrete floor, about six feet in length, a light, checked shirt and blue jeans, 150 pounds, nineteen or twenty, and shining, curly hair. His eyes were shut, and a trail of tears ran down to his ear.
Blood spotted the right leg of his jeans. A wound from his hip bled through his shirt, but it was his left hand that drew Malloy’s gaze; it was spread over his stomach, rising and falling with each painful breath. It was covered in thick, bright red.
“Okay,” Will said. “Malloy, put your hands on your head and get on your knees by Bobby here. He’s gonna help us out.”
Bobby’s eyes opened, and he…
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