Clara Newhall's Guide to Saving an Unperson

Causality

The Smiling Boy was back. Clara's heart had leapt when she saw Anatoly Kruschev's gaunt face emerge from the dark hallway, knowing he would be in tow. But when the Smiling Boy entered the room, she could see that he was different. There was a burly guard at either side of him, holding his arms tightly. He was half-marched, half-dragged up to the reception desk, looking panicked and rather pale - probably blood loss from the bleeding injury at his shoulder. The sleeve was rolled up and the doctor could see gauze haphazardly bound around it.

Kruschev barked an explanation, snapping her attention back to him. "Gunshot. He tried to remove bullet with knife." In his frustration, he seemed to have forgotten how articles worked. He tossed Smiling Boy's file at her and turned away, muttering in Russian. From her basic understanding of the language, she could tell he was cussing his agent out.

There was hardly any useful information in the file, and Clara hadn't forgotten a single detail, so instead of reading it she tried to make eye contact with Smiling Boy. He seemed occupied with trying to get a look at his tattered left shoulder. The guard at his right forced his head forward, whispering "Nyet, nyet."

Bradley walked in, set down the trashcan he was hauling, and pulled his headphones out of his ears. "What a mess! How did that happen?"

"He tried to remove bullet with knife," Kruschev repeated bitterly.

Bradley barely stifled a giggle, probably at the way he'd pronounced "boo-lett." 

"Bradley! Stop it!" Clara shouted suddenly. 

He looked alarmed. "What's up with you, Doc?" But she'd had enough.

"I'm going to examine him alone.  I need to concentrate." She stepped into the hallway and held open the examination room door. A guard motioned unSmiling Boy forward. "All of you wait here," she instructed the remaining four men, and disappeared with the bleeding assassin in tow.

After a few seconds, her head popped back out. "Not you, Bradley." And she was gone.

-

Newhall turned her attention to the agent standing unsteadily next to her model skeleton. He was staring at a random point on the ground and seemed to be near the point of hyperventilation. His breath hitched on every short gasp of air. He yanked at the gauze around his wound. 

This was a far cry from the calm, good-natured unperson she'd met six weeks ago. He was clearly in pain, but it wasn't that. Someone who could break his arm and barely react might have  a bit more trouble with a gunshot wound, but not to this level. 

Newhall peeled off the bloody gauze. It was hard to see beyond the coagulated mess, but it seemed to be more-or-less a flesh wound. The bullet was still embedded in his shoulder. She could see what Kruschev had meant about his trying to remove it with a knife; there were two deep slashes stretching across his entire deltoid, crossing at the bullet hole like an X. A smaller, shallower mark had been made at an awkward sideways angle to the X. The gash marks were bleeding more than the original wound, though she imagined that wouldn't be the case if she had to remove the bullet. But none of this explained his panic. So Clara resolved to do something she never did. She was going to talk to an unperson.

So as she led him to the sink to wash off the blood, she steeled her resolve and asked, "What's the matter?"

It took Smiling Boy a moment to respond. He looked close to tears. After what felt like a whole minute of Clara wondering whether he even spoke English, he managed a tiny, quavering "He shot me."

So Kruschev had done this. She shoved down her sudden burst of hatred for the man and set to work washing the wound. Luckily, Smiling Boy didn't resist, but he did seem worryingly enraptured by the river of pinkish water spilling down the drain. She considered telling him to look away again but the words "Why did he shoot you?" came out instead.