Once in the apartment, he headed straight for the bathroom. On the way, he shed his light windbreaker, shoulder holster and shirt in a trail along the floor. Felicity gave one brief huff of exasperation and followed, picking up garments as she went. By the time she reached his shirt, Morgan was washing his side. Felicity’s eyes widened as she watched blood flow into the sink with the soapy water. “Ow! I didn’t realize,” she said. “That’s a lot worse than it looked with your jacket on. What’s the damage report?” Morgan grimaced. “Less than I deserve. Some bruised knuckles. Sprained left shoulder. This flesh wound here, where some shotgun pellets scraped me. Don’t seem to have any in the skin. Sure hurts though. You got any gauze and maybe some surgical tape laying around?” “Wait a minute,” Felicity said. “What I have is a doctor who won’t be asking any questions. Let me get him on the phone.”
