"Nazca," Don manages. Realization isn't a blow, doesn't hit or strike. It courses through him, a poison spread as his heart clenches and unclenches. He stares at the blood and fumbles to think of something other than how much there is.

He has to pry his fingers off the wrench. Or that's how it feels. He doesn't hear it hit the ground.

He steps toward her, swallows. "How bad--how long..." It takes effort to look at her and not the wound.