Clarence Sasser was a quiet kid from Rosharon, Texas

pack into the wounds of the living. He ran out of plasma. He pressed his bare hands against open wounds and leaned his weight onto them. He dropped his last morphine syringe into the swamp water, picked it up, wiped it on his blood-soaked shirt, and used it anyway. The risk of infection was a problem for tomorrow. The bleeding was the problem right continue reading …