The Amerindian wasn’t complaining, but Falcon could tell that Nightwalker was in bad shape. The big man’s breathing was rapid and shallow, and the brittle gleam of fever was back in his eyes. He was slowing down again, nowhere near as much as right after the encounter with the Disassemblers, but still noticeably. He kept his left arm tight against his ribs, apparently applying pressure to the wound to slow the bleeding. The gray cloth dressing on his upper right arm was already completely dark, saturated with blood. The stimpatch and the metas were keeping him going, but for how long? Falcon couldn't help but wonder.