I spotted a twenty-something guy with an impressive bushy beard and no shirt. Aside from one cut on his stomach and some smaller patches of shredded skin where the sand had caught him in the back, he seemed to be in okay shape. “You. Help her.”
And this allows her a second chance at the assertive, specific directions she failed to give earlier.
He looked at the older woman beside him. His mother? She was clearly hurt, and had the remains of two or three white t-shirts bundled around her arm.
Ah, yeah, some of them aren’t going to want to leave behind their closest to go help.
It was clear the limb had been caught by the sand; it looked like a mummy’s arm, only bloody.
Oh jeez.
Anticipating an excuse on his part, I pointing to the nearest group of injured and told him, “They’ll look after her. There are people who need you more. Second floor. Go.”
This is how you do it. Good job, Taylor.
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