From The Ashes

A Smuggler's Tale

Part One

        The rain crashed down all around as the wind across the bay clashed and cried out its wailing and haunting song as old as time itself. It sang of the woe and destruction of many a seafaring lad’s hopes and fortune for those who had the will to listen and heed the words carefully. It slashed and whipped any seafaring vessel that dared trek across the lakes with it’s invisible but deadly talons. Though the skill of man had made great strides in the durability of seacraft, there were still many a wreckage on the bottom of oceans and lakes alike that bore testament to not being enough. There would be blood in the waters tonight. That much was certain.

The Irishman stood transfixed in a stoic stare as he took in the might and glory of Mother Nature herself.  Storms on land were loud and obnoxious but storms over water brought about an unnatural fear and caused man to question how truly insignificant he was in the grand scheme of things.

Finn had seen this type of havoc before firsthand in his earlier years as a young yardbird and eventual ship’s apprentice on some of the merchant vessels sailing out of the port of Boston. Back then, such a sight would have put a pause in his heart but now storms like this though great, brought about a different type of stirring within him. Stirrings of adventure, opportunity, and of profit.

Or perhaps he was just full of himself.

Christ Finn, she sure is coming down hard tonight. Ain’t nobody with two bits of sense besides your dumbarse going to be out here making this fool’s bargain in this hellish storm. Now where the devil are these bloody yanks?

Finnigan Debonaire, recently promoted Capo of the Dead Poets, smuggler extraordinaire, Irish scoundrel, and reigning champion for dumbass of the year, scanned up and down the docks for any unwanted attention. After having not noticed a single living soul, he walked towards the edge of the pier, unzipped his pants, and commenced relieving himself over the side and into the chaotic churning waters below.

*CRACKLE* *HISS* *BOOM* *BOOM* *CRACKLE*

Nothing like fine Irish weather to bring about a man's need to take a piss. The gods see fit to take a piss on me so I must see fit to take a piss on the creatures below me. It's just the natural order of things.

The sound of thunder could be heard crashing down from the heavens above. The Irishman didn’t even flinch while he continued on with his task at hand. Not even an elevated heart rate occurred within the man as the ground crashed with the telltale sign of lightning striking it barely a couple of miles away.

When Finn was done with his business, he drew out a small flask from his coat and took a generous swig of the Irish fire within and felt the familiar burn of the alcohol swirl around the insides of his mouth and work their way down his throat.  After having wet his whistle, he drew out a lighter and joint from the same pocket, tilted his head forward so his fedora blocked the rain and lit the joint.

While taking a slow and deliberate drag from his drug of choice, the Irishman contemplated the current situation.

Like I thought, not a single soul out on a night like this and even if they were, ain’t nobody dumb enough to fuck with the Poets. And even if they were, it’s not like anybody has a bloody clue about anything going on out here. You made sure of that. You didn’t come out here for just the lovely Chicago weather now did you? Best not to come back to Mr. Torretta with just your pecker in your hand though. You’ve put too much effort into this for that.

Finn’s personal bodyguard Vincent, who had been shadowing the smuggler up until this point, put his hand on his boss’ shoulder to gain his attention and then pointed at a small vessel making it’s way rapidly across the bay in the direction of the very pier they were on.

The ship made a god awful racket for such a small vessel as it churned it’s way across the choppy and dangerous waters. When lightning streaked across the sky, large puffs of black smoke could be made coming out of the boat's stacks.

It was a good thing that Finn had made sure to grease all the right palms tonight to allow for safe passage of the cargo and for his rendezvous with his business associates to go about undisturbed. The noise the boat was making could wake the dead. There would be zero discrepancies tonight. This exchange could not be mucked up. Too much was on the line.

As the decrepit vessel disguised as a fishing boat came alongside the quay wall of the pier, the deckhands hollered out across towards Finn and his bodyguard and the pair of them went to work. The crew of the boat hurled over tending lines and the men went to work lashing down the boat to the bollards on the pier.

After having moored up the ship, an old salt of a man detached himself from the helm and made his way across the deck while barking profanities and orders towards the young deck hands rushing this way and that.

Finn took another long drag from his joint and felt the calming aspect of the drug work its way through his body.

Thomas Fitzpatrick, you motherless sea dog. Still the bane of many a young boy seeking a decent mariners wage. Saltier than even the seas that you have sailed on. It’s been a long time since our paths have crossed. Too long it would seem.

The captain made his way towards the side where the small fishing boat was moored to and hopped over onto the pier in front of Finn.

The two men eyed each other for a while before the captain broke the silence and said, “Now ain’t that just the queerest thing I’ve seen these past few months. I see a sea pup before me that I once knew. Now he thinks himself some sort of important big shot feller in that fancy suit and he travels in the company of other fools who think themselves big bad men. Bah!”

The salty sea captain hacked up a ball of spit and then very loudly spat it out on the pier, then redirected his attention back upon the Irishman.

There was another moment of silence between the two men before laugher erupted and the pair embraced each other in a friendly hug.

“It’s good to see you Finn, you bloody scoundrel! I hope you are adjusting to being a no good landlubber! How is Chicago treating you and are the lovelies in these parts as fine as I've heard? Hopefully that pecker of yours isn’t getting you into too much trouble. You always did have the worst taste in women.” Thomas added with a knowing grin.

Finn let out a chuckle before replying, “Now in what life does me and staying out of trouble go hand in hand? You know me better than that Tom. I see you are still the terror of many a young sailor trying to make a decent living on the waterfront. As for women…well…there might be one that’s kept my attention for longer that a fortnight but I don’t want to jinx it.”

“Well, she must be something to hold the interest of your wandering heart. But Honest wage? Hah! That’s a good one my boy. You care to take a gander at the goodies I brought you in this honest profession of ours?” stated Thomas with a laughing tone.

“I thought you would never ask you salty old codger.” eagerly replied Finn as he flicked away his joint.

The two old friends and the bodyguard hopped back over the rails of the ship and made their way down to the cargo hold below. There were stacks upon stacks of boxes and crates of fishing supplies. The captain moved several of the boxes out of the way to reveal a couple of crates that were obviously a different design than the fishing gear crates.

Finn grabbed a crowbar leaning against the bulkhead and began opening the top of one of the crates. The top creaked and groaned as nails were ripped from their wooden resting place. Several barrels of the finest Canadian Whiskey could be seen as the top crashed to the floor. It was a welcome sight to the Irishman who had been expecting this shipment for several weeks. He had several buyers lined up who could appreciate a good whiskey but not before setting aside a case or two for his own personal enjoyment.

This here is the right kind of hooch my customers will pay top dollar for. It’s a good haul to be sure but it wasn’t my sole reason for all the secrecy and careful planning with this particular shipment.

“And the guns?” Finn said aloud while still having his eyes focused on the booze before him.

“They are in fishing supply boxes. I just knew you would want to inspect the whiskey first.”

Right you are about me always in need of some decent whiskey but my crew NEEDS the firepower.

The old salt knew Finn far too well. He had first started sailing under Tom back when he was but fifteen years old and living in Boston. The old man, slightly less grey in the whiskers back then, had taught Finn the honest trade of seamanship and more than a thing or two about life than anything his own father had ever impressed upon him. In the beginning it was mostly barge work but as time progressed, not exactly legal work had a way of slipping it’s way into the mix. The old captain had very much a hand in Finn’s humble beginnings outside of the law and Finn knew it.

The Irishman opened up several of the fishing supply boxes and was greeted by a small cache of tommy guns, sawed-off shotguns, and small hand cannon revolvers. This part of the inventory however was not for public consumption. The Dead Poets were in need of some additional firepower as of late and Mr. Torretta had expressed an importance of expediting the arming of said armory through his smuggling connections. This might bring a smile to his boss’ face, but Finn doubted it. It seemed good times were becoming harder and harder to come by as rival gangs were beginning to flex their muscles across the city.

“Alright Tom, looks like you’ve held up your end of the bargain. Allow me to hold up mine. Vincent, pay the salty bastard."

Finnigan’s bodyguard, who had remained silent during the entire exchange between the men, came forward and withdrew an extremely thick envelope from his trench coat. He passed it to Tom without so much as a word and then took a step back to the previous spot he had been positioned in. Vincent was always the epitome of discretion and utter silence and it’s why the Irishman enjoyed his company so much.

Tom opened the envelope and ran his index finger down the top of the bills as he inspected his take on the job. After counting the several thousands of dollars in cash in his hands, he let out a slow whistle and said, “Yes, you held up your end quite nicely my boy. Pleasure doing business with you and I hope many more in the future. Perhaps the next time you get ahold of me, five years won't have passed like this time? My mates will help you unload all this gear onto your truck on the pier.”

With the business transaction almost complete, the three men made their way back up topside and then onto the pier.

Part Two

The rain continued it’s unrelenting onslaught as the deck hands moved the cargo like little worker ants getting pissed on by the gods. The Irishman had opened the rear tailgate of the cargo truck and was directing the young lads into stacking the crates in back of the truck’s bed. He grinned as he caught some of the dirty looks the men were throwing their tyrannical captain as they unloaded the goods into the back of the truck. Finn had been in their shoes not too long ago and knew how much of a bastard the captain could be.

*CRACKLE* *HISS* *BOOM* *BOOM* *CRACKLE*

There was another clash of lightning across the sky followed by the delayed sound of thunder. Finn allowed his gaze to drift to the sky and observed the clashing colors of black, white, and the odd  grey discoloration in between the two colors. It was truly beautiful what nature could do when you took the time to observe it. As the Irishman’s gaze came back down to the realm of the living, he caught sight of one of the young lads and took pause. The man had stopped abruptly and was clutching his chest as if in pain. Suddenly he fell to his knees and blood started spreading out from his chest and seeping all through his shirt.

What in the seven hells…

As if in answer to his unspoken question, machine gun fire erupted and plunged the whole world into madness. The deck hands frantically rushed for the cover of their boat as a couple of them were mowed down out in the open. Finnigan had slid quick as a snake behind his cargo truck and used it for cover as he drew out his Colt .45 revolver from his holster. Vincent dived for cover right beside his boss and then asked, “You alright Boss?”

Finn gave him a quick nod and motioned for Vincent to get a peek at their attackers. The Italian peered around the corner of the truck as bullets began firing again in quick succession.

“Two cars, looks to be maybe seven guys give or take a couple. I don’t know exactly. Mother fuckers can’t hit worth shit though!” Vincent said quickly as he grinned at his boss.

Finn only gave a weak grin in response as he was slightly distracted by pondering who the identity of their assailants was.

Who are these guys?

Tired of being pelted at like a sitting duck and not having any answers, Finn laid prone beneath the truck and rolled underneath it. He attempted to listen to see if he could hear anything useful. Nothing presented itself but upon catching the outline of one of his attacker’s legs, he took aim and commenced firing at the man. As one of the unknown attackers was nicked in the leg, he fell down in pain and was greeted with a slug right between the eyes. Finn quickly rolled back out from under the truck and behind the safety of the tires.

Bet that will show them they are not dealing with a bunch of choir boys over here.

It was then that Finnigan noticed the remaining deck hands were untying the boat from the pier, hoping back aboard, and the vessel started to detach away from the pier. Bullets plinked off the steel hull of the boat as the attackers coordinated their attacks on the boat. Tom was rushing about and barking orders to make all haste to get the fuck out of dodge. The Irishman began to feel even more outnumbered in this onslaught against him as his business contact faded further and further from view.

Guess the old saying is true. There is no honor among thieves. I can’t blame him though, he has the means to get out of this shitstorm and I’m cut off. Fuck. Get your mind right Finn!

The sound of men walking on the concrete of the pier could be heard as the attackers advanced upon the cargo truck and fired shots off at random towards the two men hiding behind it.

Vincent said to his boss, “These bastards are really starting to piss me off. Cover me.”

Finn gave his bodyguard a quick nod, headed around to the other side of the truck and braced himself for what he was about to do.

The rain that had been pouring for almost the entire night but now seemed to let up to a small drizzle in that moment. He felt his senses become heightened and everything around him seemed to pause. He could feel drips of water slide through his rain soaked hair and down the side of his face. His erratic breathing slowed down and he could almost feel his pulse in his chest. He closed his eyes briefly and focused on the task at hand.

Go. Now.

Drawing himself into a frenzied state of a man out of his bloody mind, he exited the cover of the truck and screamed, “GOOD EVENING GENTLEMEN! SO NICE OF YOU TO DROP BY TONIGHT!  HOWEVER, DO YOU SEE THESE DOCKS? I OWN THESE MOTHER FUCKING DOCKS!!!” as he started firing several shots wildly at the wave of attackers.  

He probably could have counted their numbers if he had been in the right state of mind, but that time had come and gone. The adrenaline was coursing through his veins far too violently for anything sane like taking measure of the odds against him.

The sheer absurdity of Finn’s outburst was the very last thing the thugs expected and several froze in place before quickly adopting defensive like crouches as the wild madman launched his wild volley in their direction. He managed to drop one of his assailants and clip another in the arm before the group gathered their wits and started focusing their aim on him. Just as they were about to fire upon the Irishman, he dove for cover as gunfire exploded out on the other side of the truck when Vincent unleashed his  own onslaught upon their attackers.  Two fell to the man’s lethal aim before he too was forced back into cover.

Jesus Christ! Finn you are a bloody nut at times. Crazy shit like that is going to get you killed some day. The blessed Virgin Mary herself must be looking out for your no good arse tonight.

While catching his breath Finn noticed that the gunfire had ceased and he glanced down the way towards the other side of the truck. Vincent sat there, clutching his chest. The look the Italian gave Finn needed no words to interpret. There was nothing left to be said. They were both going to die here tonight.

The Irishman crawled quickly towards his bodyguard and opened the inside of the man’s coat to reveal a blood caked chest.

“FUCK. We are going to get out of this situation man. We are not dying here to some sucker punching pussies.”

The bodyguard looked as if he was about to laugh at the futility of Finn fussing over his wounds but instead just flashed a queer smile that seemed oddly out of place on the usually stoic man. Vincent let out a strained but slow exhale and his heart beat for the last time. He was still looking Finn in the eye when he passed and held a cold empty stare with the man.

The Irishman slumped his back up against the truck while still holding Vincent’s empty gaze and wondered what was next.

*DRIP* *DRIP* *DRIP*

Small amounts of liquid dripped through the side panels of the truck and onto the tussled up hair of the Irishman. He paid it no mind until it dripped into his eyes causing him mild irritation. He used his right hand to flick some of it out of his hair but the smell of it caused him to take pause. He took his finger and stuck it in his mouth. The taste was all too familiar.

Whiskey Here an Irishman is about to meet his maker and it’s raining bloody whiskey. The almighty has a sense of humor after all. These bastards are ruining perfectly good whiskey though. The savages! Wait a second…

Ever the quick thinker, Finnigan slid his hand through a tight squeeze of the side panels of the truck and retrieved a still intact bottle of whiskey. He then turned to his dead bodyguard and quickly tore the man’s undershirt from his body.

Sorry Vincent but I don’t think you need the damn thing right now anyways. These sons a bitches are about to be in for a shocker though. I’m not going to go down quietly.

Acting with extreme haste, Finn ripped the shirt in half, poured a decent amount of whiskey on one strip and stuffed in in the bottle.

Wait, there’s two cars…I need another bottle.

He quickly grabbed a second bottle from the back of the truck and made another makeshift molotov cocktail.

He set both of his bottles in front of him on the ground and withdrew his revolver. Finn double checked the condition of his weapon and once he was satisfied, tucked it back in his holster. There was once again a moment of clarity where he started to psych himself up but then very abruptly abandoned all notion of such a pursuit.

Fuck it.

There would be no backup this time and he was going to die here. But he was going to take these bastards with him.

The Irishman lit both of the bottles in front of him with his lighter and prepared for the last good fight of his life. Quickly he proceeded around the end of the truck and hurled one of the bottles in the direction of the first outline of a vehicle he saw. Without even daring to follow the trail of the bottle in the air with his eyes, he noticed the second car and threw his remaining bottle at it when he was struck immediately in the ribs by a bullet. He dropped to the ground instantly in pain.

Christ! That hurts like hell!

He crawled in agony back to the protection of the truck’s side as more bullets whizzed past him. The screams of the men out front were not lost upon him in the chaos though. It occurred to him that his makeshift explosives had done at least some damage but he still had not been able to get any real read on their true numbers. He reached down and felt his ribs with his hand. Blood was freeflowing out of the wound and would become a problem very soon.

“IS THAT THE BEST YOU MOTHERLESS WHORES CAN DO???” the defiant Irishman yelled into the night.

Don’t let them think they got to you. Don’t even let them breathe.

Not waiting for a response, he stood up abruptly while stifling a grimace and began to charge what was ever left of the attack wave.

“Just shut the fu….” Was all that came out of one of the thugs mouth’s before Finn’s bullet silenced him forever.

The Irishman quickly noticed that there were only two men remaining on the docks besides himself and a small sliver of hope crept into his mind. Aiming his revolver at the second man he squeezed the trigger and scored a shot right in the man’s jugular. As he brought aim on the last man, it happened to him.

*BANG*

The bullet hit Finn in his chest and he felt his legs go out from beneath him. He crumpled over in shock as his blood poured out of him. His gun fell out of his grip and bounced several feet away from him. There was a numbness that was starting to crawl up from the bottom of his spine and work its way up his back. His vision started to blur but the outline of a man approaching was unmistakable.

The last man standing walked slowly, deliberately and cautiously up to Finn’s struggling body and said, “Well I must say. You certainly were an annoying cunt to deal with but good riddance. We’re coming for all the Dead Poets. You were just the first cockroach to bite the bullet. Don’t worry, it’ll all be over soon. I promise.”

His gun was so far away that he would never be able to reach it in time. This was how it was all going to end.

NO. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

A last stand of strength surged through Finn as he swung his right leg out in a furious kick towards the man’s shins that brought him to the ground.  Finn withdrew his switchblade from his jacket, flicked out the blade, and stabbed the man repeatedly in the chest and neck like a frenzied animal. It was brutal, quick, and completely unpleasant. The last ditch efforts of a wounded animal.

After the deed was done, the Irishman slumped over next to the lifeless body and stared at the sky. It really was beautiful tonight with the sky falling down on him while he was looking straight up. Another streak of lightning streaked across the sky and he gave it a weak smile.

He felt his life force bleeding out from his exhausted and injured body. His breathing was becoming harder and harder as he fought to stay conscious.

I always hoped the last beautiful thing I would see in this life was a woman worth remembering. I guess this night sky will do though. Damn I need a drink…

The Irishman kept his sight on the sky as his vision became blurry and then faded all together.

Elle’s Viewpoint

Elle hurries along the docks, skipping and jumping along the way like a school girl.  She shines her flashlight into every nook and cranny as she goes along.  Wind whipping through her jacket, it’s a bone chilling wind with a cold biting rain that hurts when it hits her face.  The rain is coming down steady and hard and she pulls her hood around her face as far as she can as she ducks into the wind.  Elle is grateful that she thought to throw on tights and galoshes along with her raincoat and gloves.  Her wool skirt and sweater would not have cut this weather at all.  She can’t believe the cold November storm that is brewing on The Lake tonight.  She stops and listens every few feet, hoping to find what she is looking for soon.  Not hearing anything out of the ordinary she continues her little escapade.  She’s sure to be in trouble with Finnigan when he sees her, but she can’t let that spoil her fun right now.  He left her back at the HQ with strict orders to stay put and out of his business tonight.  He said she was too young and inexperienced and would only be in his way. 

 Ha, asshole.  What does he think anyway? Actually Elle has no idea what Finn thinks. I’m not that young, and how are you supposed to learn anything if no one ever lets you do anything?  She queries the wind.  It’s the only thing that listens to her lately.

Finnigan tells her what to do and Elle does it without question.  He never explains himself and frequently disappears for days at a time without warning.  She never once said a word about any of it since coming on as his associate.  She watched his every move and listened to every order he barked at her.  Tonight was different because Elle had had enough.  She was hungry for adventure and she could feel it in the air.  He was not going to hold her back.

Finn hadn’t made a secret of where he was going, he just expected her to obey him blindly.  She always did before.  She waited about an hour after he left and then she headed toward the docks.  It wasn’t an easy journey either.  The storm was right over The Lake.

The Lake.  Elle loved Lake Michigan like she loved her own body.  She felt like she was one with it.  The powerful white caps and the singing sands of the shoreline.  Inhaling the smell of the fish and the clean air makes her come alive and animated.  The pounding of the waves against the shore soothe her.  They are relentless and unending, unpredictable yet methodical.  The lightning cracks across the sky as it matches wits with the thunder, crashing and banging like a heavenly cacophony.  Every bolt of lightning awakens the sleeping beast of a lake with power.

Just as she is about to give up and head back home, she sees a flash and almost immediately hears a loud bang. 

That wasn’t nature, but what was it?  She thinks as it startles her just a little bit.  That was some kind of manmade chaos Elle, you had better be careful. That was not part of the hideous storm that mother nature bestowed on us tonight.

Not a minute later she hears an ominous string of unmistakable gunfire.  The young woman runs as fast as she can in the direction of the blast, just in time to see a fishing boat pulling away.  The racket it is making is deafening, but she plods forward like a race horse.  Soon after she hears more bullets zinging through the air and she ducks behind a post momentarily to catch her breath and formulate a plan.  She doesn’t exactly know where it is coming from and she needs to stay calm.  Digging into her bag, she pulls out her Colt 1911 and loads it quickly.  Her heart pounds in her chest like a jackhammer and she emerges from behind the relative security of the post. As she continues tentatively on her way, she sees the first dead body; she doesn’t recognize him so maybe that’s a good sign.   Then she sees another and another.  Elle slows down her breathing deliberately and closes her eyes for a split second to gently calm herself.  It won’t help matters if she goes off halfcocked.    

Once she is ready to proceed she practically tiptoes down the walkway, her blonde curls plastered against her face by the rain.  She moves like a panther in the dark, slow and careful.  Hunting her prey, only she isn’t sure what it might be.

Then she sees him.  He’s dead.  Finn is lying there in a pool of blood like a common hoodlum.  The young would be gangster feels like a knife has slashed though her and ripped out her heart.  Elle kneels down beside Finn’s body and puts her head on his chest without hope.  Unexpected feelings of grief wash over her like one of the crashing waves.

Oh Finn, you can’t leave me like this; I need you.  You have no idea how much I need you.

She collapses completely on his lifeless form as she lets out her pent up emotion shamelessly.  Just as she is losing all control, she imagines that she feels his breath on her neck. 

It feels as if an eternity has passed, but in all reality it was less than a minute.

Elle sits up abruptly as Finn moves ever so slightly beneath her.  She glances at the puddle of blood and knows she needs to act quickly.

 Don’t you dare die on me Finnigan Debonaire, don’t you dare die. 

She hastily stops whatever bleeding she can, but she knows she can’t move this big brute of a man with her little female body.  She needs to use her intelligence to move him, and she has an idea.  Running to Finn’s truck on the pier she looks for supplies, she grabs up a large tarp, some rope and what appears to be a walking stick.  She takes it along with the low lying cart for hauling cargo.   Elle fashions it into a gurney of sorts. She hauls it over to where he is lying quickly.  It’s rudimentary, but it will have to do.  She rolls up the tarp and places it under him as far as she can.  Then she hoists him onto it and rolls it out from the other side of his body.  Once he is positioned, she grabs the tarp and eases him onto the cart as carefully as possible.  Then she drags him to the truck and sits for a minute while she thinks what her next move is.

Using leverage and ingenuity, she manages to somehow get him into the back of the truck. She secures the cot and Finnigan so he won’t bounce around from the drive.   Elle wishes she could sit for a minute, but she knows time is of the essence if Finn is to come out of this ordeal alive.

Elle starts the truck and climbs behind the wheel, she knows just where she is going, and she doesn’t waste any time, driving like a bat out of hell down the city streets. 

As the truck pulls up to the apartment on the south side of town, Elle throws it in park and all but flies up the steps to Doctor Sloane’s apartment. He is known for helping those down on their luck and patching up the occasional mobster.  Banging on the door until he appears, she explains her dilemma and hopes he will have pity on her.  It won’t be the first time she has come to him for help, but it may be the most important time.  Sloane grabs his bag and rushes down to Finn and checks him out briefly, and then he elicits Elle’s help to get the young gangster into his downstairs office. 

The young woman convinces the elderly doctor that she won’t be leaving Finnigan’s side during the procedure.  When he sees she won’t budge, he relents and tells her to wash up and get a gown and mask.  She slips them on, along with a pair of gloves and stands by Finn’s head while the doctor goes to work.  Elle holds his hand gently and whispers into his ear quietly, more for her own sake than his own.

As he prods and pokes at the patient’s wounds, Elle holds her breath and prays to the gods in the heavens for his recovery.  She hasn’t broken down again since thinking he was dead on the pier, but puts on a brave face as the doctor works silently and diligently.  After about an hour, Old Dr. Sloane sutures him up and looks up at Elle.

Young lady, I think it’s time you went home and got some rest.  I’m sure your young man will be fine without you.

He’s not my young man,  Elle stammers somewhat softly, But I won’t be leaving him tonight.  Doc just shrugs and leaves her alone with Finnigan.  She pulls up a chair and leans over the cot, resting her head next to his and falls soundly asleep.