“I think we’d better tell her now,” I said.
Slim nodded in agreement.
“Besides,” I said, “her house is closer than Slim’s. We can stop there first and borrow some bandages.”
Rusty opened his mouth as if all set to argue. Before any words came out, however, a light of understanding filled his eyes.
He got it.
He got something anyway.
“Good point,” he said. “Bandages. Lee must have bandages. Everyone has bandages. Okay. Let’s go there first.”
“Okay by me,” Slim said.
Not saying a word, I raised one foot off the ground and pulled off my sneaker.
“What’re you doing?” Slim asked.
“Giving you my shoes.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
I smiled at her and shrugged and pulled off my other sneaker. Holding them both toward her, I said, “I insist.”
“Hey, no. C’mon. I can’t wear your shoes.”
“Sure you can.”
“If she doesn’t want to wear ’em ...”
I gave Rusty a look that shut his mouth.
“Put them on,” I told Slim. “Please.”
“I don’t know.”
“If it hadn’t been for your shoes, I would’ve gotten chomped by the dog.”
“Glad to help.”
“I’m the one who threw ’em,” Rusty reminded us.
“You did a good job,” I told him.
“Saved your butt.”
“I know. You both did.”
“Yeah, well, remember that when you wanta rook me outa Valeria.”
“Sure.” To Slim, I said, “I want you to wear them. Please.”
“But what about you?”
“I’ll be fine.”
With a look of embarrassed but grateful surrender, she nodded and said, “All right.” Then she took the sneakers from my hands, turned away and walked over to the remains of an old, fallen-down tree. She sat on its trunk, facing us, and set both sneakers beside her. While Rusty and I stood there and watched, she brought up one foot, crossed it over her knee, and removed the shirt that she’d been using to protect it. The bottom of her bare foot looked filthy. I glimpsed some blood on it before she put my sneaker on.
“Are your feet okay?” I asked.
“A few little nicks. No big deal.” She let the shirt fall to the ground, then brought up her other foot.
When she had both my shoes on, she stood up. “Feels much better,” she said. Then she crouched and plucked our shirts off the ground. Holding them out in front of her, she shook her head. “These are really wrecked, guys. I’m sorry.”
They were not only covered with dirt and blood, but torn in a few places.
“Want them?” she asked.
Rusty shook his head.
“We can throw them away when we get to town,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’ll carry ’em.”
She was about to give them to me when Rusty asked her, “Don’t you want to wear one?”
“Thanks anyway. They’re filthy. You want me to get infected?”
“You can’t walk back to town looking like that. Everybody’s gonna wonder how you got all wrecked up.”
I nodded. “You’d better wear a shirt.”
She frowned at the shirts in her hands. “I’d rather let people see me....”
“You can borrow mine,” Rusty said. He started to unfasten the buttons of the shirt he was wearing.
Shaking her head, Slim said, “It’ll get blood on it. I’ve wrecked enough shirts for one day.”
“I insist,” Rusty said.
“No, really....”
“You can wear Dwight’s shoes....”
“Okay.”
He pulled his shirt off.
“Thanks,” Slim said. She handed the two ruined shirts to me, then stepped closer to Rusty. “You’d better put it on me, though.” She turned her back to him.
He gave me a strange smile—somehow smug and embarrassed at the same time—then slipped the shirt up Slim’s arms and eased it onto her shoulders. “There you go,” he told her.
Turning to face us, she fastened a couple of the middle buttons. “Thanks, guys,” she said.
The shirt was way too large for her. It drooped over her shoulders. The sleeves reached down to her elbows. The single pocket hung below the rise of her left breast. The tails were so long that they completely hid her cut-off jeans.