That's a Good Question

20: how to get blood stains out of a rug?

What once was a stealthy crouch turns into a lurching stagger. Lucky for me, we were just outside the little grove of townhouses where Midge lives when those guys decided to skewer me, so it only takes about three minutes of lurching and staggering to reach my destination. Jamie keeps trying to help me, but I keep denying him, because I have way too much dignity to let myself be cradled by some kid.

Besides, I'm okay. Really.

Jamie's extremely upset that there's no doorbell, probably because he has a strange liking to pressing things. I don't have the slightest idea why, but it's just the way he is. It takes all my strength to pry my television remote from his hands back at the apartment, and not even because he wants to watch TV. I swear, the kid may be fifteen, but he acts like he's two.

Except when he gets in a fight, then he goes all Rambo on everybody. An enigma, that one.

I knock. Behind Midge's front door, there's a lot of shuffling and some shouts before she swings the door open. "Grey?" she says, stunned. A flush goes to her cheeks, and I'm not far behind her. Last time I saw her, I kissed her, and I don't think either of us can forget it. "This is a surprise—oh my God, is that blood?"

I glance down at the wound at my chest. "Oh. Right."

I take a step forward, into the foyer, but Midge yelps at me. "No!" she exclaims. "Don't bleed on my floor. What's wrong with you?"

"Like I can help it!"

"You could have! I swear, you're always getting in these dumb situations—"

"Most of which are your fault, Midge Osborne."

Midge shakes her head violently, her bright hair whirling about her face. "Not this time," she grumbles, her arms folded across her chest. I don't comment, but she's chosen to go with a rather eccentric style today, to say the least. She's wearing a pair of baggy jean shorts and a multicolored shirt that looks like a lampshade you'd find in a grandma's house. Not to mention she's got the banana socks again.

From Midge, though, none of this is unusual.

I stare at her, and she stares at me, and Jamie just blinks confusedly.

"So, are you going to help me or just watch me bleed?"

"I'm leaning towards the latter," she says, and when I snort, she rolls her eyes and reaches out to grab my hand. "But I'm feeling nice today."

Jamie swings the door shut after him, and both Midge and I jump as it thuds into the jamb. Midge says, "I'd appreciate if you wouldn't destroy things, Jamie," before rolling her eyes and leading us through to her living room/garden/apothecary. I'm not sure what you call it. The place is weird and witchy, but also aesthetically pleasing at the same time. Trust me, it doesn't make any sense to me, either.

"Mom!" calls Midge as she orders me to sit down on her couch, Jamie beside me. Then she turns and starts rustling through the glass shelves on either side of their mini television, going through bottle after bottle and flask after flask. I can barely hear her voice over all the erratic clinking. "I could use some help in here! Grey went out and got himself stabbed!"

I mutter, "Wouldn't be the first time."

Midge whips around, hyper speed. "I heard that."

"What, like you can deny it?"

She narrows her eyes at me, but ultimately decides I'm right and continues her furious bottle-searching. Midge's mom rounds the corner, a bright African robe draped around her shoulders. It brushes the floor as she enters, a pair of knitting needles and a half-finished homemade sock in her hands. When she sees me, or rather the blood caked on my shirt, she rolls her eyes and rushes to help.