Farming Life Starting in Africa

What's so difficult about sewing up a few holes? Rosen even wanted to try sewing a lightning bolt into the hole in his gunshot wound.

Looking at his funny smile, Swag felt a sudden unease creep into his heart, and his scalp tingled slightly.

He quickly turned to Sarah, clinging to his last hope, and asked, "Donnie told me you're in nursing school, so you should know how to stitch up wounds, right?"

Sarah shook her head with a mix of helplessness and amusement upon hearing this. "That's just Donnie's wishful thinking. I'm squeamish about blood, so I can't study nursing. I'm just an ordinary elementary school teacher now."

Upon hearing this, Swage's composure crumbled on the spot, and his face was filled with despair.

He looked around at the somewhat unreliable Rosen, then at Sarah who was squeamish about blood, and was instantly caught in a dilemma.

Rosen is probably a complete novice at sewing, and Sarah has absolutely no experience. Neither of them seems reliable.

But he had no other choice at the moment; he could only grit his teeth and take a gamble.

He stared at Sarah and asked earnestly, "Donnie said you're very skilled with your hands, and that you sew all your own clothes, right?"

"I do know how to do that." Sarah nodded helplessly.

"Then there's no problem." Swaggered to reassure himself. "Stitching up a wound is similar to sewing clothes; it's all about threading and knotting. It's very simple. If you're afraid of blood, just think of it as red tomato juice."

Rosen, watching from the side, was amused and chuckled to himself.

Well, it's good that I don't have to do this dirty work myself. Just watching this zero-experience gunshot wound suturing performance is also a good experience.

Night had completely fallen, and the rural areas of southern Kentucky were eerily quiet, with even the chirping of insects being sparse and intermittent. The entire region exuded a desolate and bleak atmosphere.

Sarah's second bedroom was simply tidied up and used specifically for treating gunshot wounds. A layer of transparent plastic sheeting was laid on the bed, mainly to prevent blood and stains from seeping in. After all, cleaning a gunshot wound is dirty and messy, and it would be too unethical to leave someone's bed covered in blood.

Swagger stripped off his upper body, revealing his muscular but blood-stained torso with two gruesome gunshot wounds grotesquely etched on either side of his chest and abdomen.

He was wearing only a clean pair of sterile medical pants on his lower body, lying flat in the center of the plastic sheet, his whole posture relaxed.

To withstand the excruciating pain, he had already swallowed a lot of tramadol to relieve the pain. The medication barely suppressed most of the pain, preventing him from convulsing and completely losing consciousness from the pain.

He also dared not take too many other painkillers, as other strong analgesics would more or less inhibit platelet activity and aggravate coagulation difficulties.

He had already lost a lot of blood; if the bleeding from his wounds couldn't be stopped, he could go into shock on his own, even before anyone chased after him.

So even though he was in excruciating pain from deep within the wound, he could only endure it, relying on his willpower to stay conscious and guide Sarah through this temporary minor surgery.

Sarah first needs to clean the necrotic tissue at the edges of the wound, removing all dirt, blood clots, and damaged tissue to prevent future infection risks, before finally suturing the wound and closing it.

As for doing something as foolish as pouring alcohol or iodine into a wound, generally no one would do that.

If you don't talk about whether it hurts or not, and just do it like that, the wound healing time will at least double.

Sarah stood by the bed, her whole body taut, her mental fortitude reaching its limit.

She really does have a mild case of hemophobia. Normal people might feel uncomfortable at most when they see a small wound, but as she stared at Swagger's bloody gunshot wound, with fresh blood seeping out little by little, her stomach churned instantly, and a strong feeling of nausea rushed to her throat and kept rising to her lips.

Several times she almost vomited up her dinner, spraying it onto Swage's wound.

Tramadol is ultimately just a weak opioid with limited analgesic effects; it's not some kind of pain-free miracle drug.

When cleaning and pulling at or touching deep wounds, sharp, stinging pain still pierces the nerves.

Swagger was sweating profusely, which trickled down his jawline. His jaw was clenched tightly, and his chest muscles trembled in waves of tension, but he didn't utter a single groan.

He had fought many tough battles in his life, and his pain tolerance had long been honed to the limit of human endurance, but even he couldn't withstand the triple debuff of excessive blood loss, long-distance escape, and continuous excruciating pain this time.

My body was already on the verge of its limit, and I was only kept awake by sheer willpower.

Finally, at the moment when the last bit of necrotic tissue was cleaned up and the wound was completely treated, the nerve that had been stretched to its limit snapped completely.

Swag's eyelids drooped, his vision went black, his head lolled to the side, and he fainted.

The person instantly relaxed, completely lost consciousness, and finally no longer had to endure the endless pain and pressure.

Inside the house, Sarah was frantically trying to save a life, while outside, the countryside was a deathly quiet night scene.

Rosen strolled leisurely around the house, hands in his pockets, keeping watch.

It must be said that the rural areas of southern Kentucky are truly pristine and incredibly remote.

In the dead of night, not a single streetlamp was on. The entire road was pitch black, with only the faint moonlight barely illuminating the surface. It seems the local municipal government really knows how to save money, cutting corners wherever possible and not wasting a single penny of electricity.

The area was so sparsely populated that you could hear the rustling of leaves in the wind. It was an excellent choice to temporarily take shelter from the storm.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away in Philadelphia, the FBI headquarters building remained brightly lit.

The office area was deserted late at night, with only a row of lit computer screens and cold white light filling the empty hall.

Nick Memphis is still working overtime at his desk, refusing to leave.

As a rookie detective who had just joined the company, he was incredibly unlucky. While others could smoothly accumulate experience after joining the company, he was immediately thrust into the hellish difficulty of the job, stumbling upon the sensational Swagger case right from the start.

While others received bonuses and built up resumes upon joining a company, he received his first disciplinary action immediately upon joining.

Looking back, it was absolutely outrageous. As the agent who was in close contact with Swagger at the scene, he not only failed to apprehend the suspect, but was also easily subdued by him. Even his standard-issue official vehicle was stolen, which caused huge trouble for the subsequent citywide manhunt. It was arguably the most embarrassing moment of the year for the bureau.

Afterwards, his superiors specifically asked him to have a debriefing session. He honestly and truthfully recounted what happened on the spot, without exaggerating or concealing anything.

Instead of being taken seriously, he received a perfunctory attitude from his superiors, who directly accused him of "excessive mental stress and memory disorder," and even suspected that he had psychological problems.

To put it bluntly: if what you're saying is too outrageous and doesn't fit our pre-set script, then you have a problem.

Finally, he was ordered to overturn his original testimony and rewrite a formal case report, and he had to follow the procedures given by his superiors.