After that things didn’t progress as quickly as you’d think. My sister was fairly badly wounded, and there was a really dead guy on the floor of the mudroom whose neck I’d just broken. I feel I should have taken that opportunity to say something casually witty, like they do in films. But that is an afterthought, really. At the time I was dumbfounded. Witty dialogue is just a bit much to hope for; I was lucky that I could move, let alone speak.

I pulled up every medical show I’d ever seen, all the high school biology I could remember, and the few war movies I’d been subjected to, and tried my best to deal with the gushing hole in my sisters neck. It was pretty scary. I haven’t subjected you to a rundown of my life history, but trust me when I say that I was never medically trained.

I knew that she had to stop bleeding, quickly, or my medical abilities would have little to do with her fate. I tried holding a rag on the wound, pressing very hard, but that was not going to cut it. Within seconds I was holding a sopping blood soaked rag, with the stopping power of a fluffy baby duck. So I went to the next logical option, which was to cauterize the wound with the iron.

I didn’t mention my plan to my sister, who was in shock and barely conscious anyway, I simply dragged her to the back bedroom and plugged in the iron. It took a full minute to heat to anything close to hot enough, and in that time my sister bleed to death. It was heartbreakingly anticlimactic.