The doctors take Mike. You follow, refusing to leave his side.

You regret it only because of how messy it is. There's so much blood that you feel like you're going to vomit from the scent alone. There's four of them, stitching and wrapping and shouting things at each other that you don't understand.

Mike has long since passed out. You sit next to him, holding onto his hand. Your fingers drift across his wrist, keeping track of his pulse; his pulse is the only thing keeping you grounded right now.

The doctors don't force you to leave. They let you sit with him as they focus on his legs. Someone brings in a blood bag and they hook it up to his arm, replenishing the blood that he's lost- quite a substantial amount. Mike is pale, but he's breathing, and both of his legs have been stitched up. Whether they're both salvageable, you have no idea.