Witchdependence Day: A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Short (Wicked Witches of the Midwest Shorts Book 8) by Amanda M. Lee

didn’t believe that for a second, and I refused to let Dutch die without at least trying to save him. “I have to call for an ambulance,” I said. “You need help.”
    “They’ll arrest me,” Dutch argued. “I’ll go to jail for stealing the pie and bread. I’ll go to jail for breaking into your stable.”
    “I won’t press charges,” I promised. “The woman who made the pie and bread won’t either. We can help you.”
    “And what about the woman at the unicorn store?” Dutch pressed. “I stole from her shop, too. She had candy and I was hungry.”
    Crap. Margaret Little owned the porcelain unicorn shop. She wouldn’t be nearly as forgiving as Winnie. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I said. “You need help, though. I won’t just sit here and watch you die.”
    “I’m not spending my last days in jail,” Dutch said. “No hospitals.”
    “But … .” His defiance irked me, but somehow I understood his pain. No one saw him. No one took the time to look for him. He was a forgotten man … and he was running out of time. Then something occurred to me. “What if I could get you help without taking you to a hospital?”
    Dutch lifted an eyebrow. “And how are you going to do that?”
    “You’re going to have to trust me,” I cautioned. “I need to take you back to the stable and get you comfortable, but I’m pretty sure I know someone who can help.”
    “Do you happen to hang out with angels, boy?”
    “Not angels, but I do know a fair number of witches. The head witch can fix this. I know it.”

    “ W HAT’S the big emergency ?”
    Aunt Tillie breezed into my office, an annoyed look on her face. Her demeanor shifted the moment she saw Dutch.
    “He needs help,” I said, fluffing the pillow under his head. “Do something.”
    “You must be the creeper,” Aunt Tillie said, moving closer. “What’s your story?”
    “This is Dutch Jenkins. He was at the veterans hospital in Traverse City until they shut it down,” I explained. “He’s been stealing food to stay alive. He fell and cut himself when he was sleeping in the office. Now fix him.”
    “I need to look at your wound,” Aunt Tillie said, leaning over and reaching for Dutch’s shirt. “Just for the record, if you hit me or bite … I bite back.”
    “I like her,” Dutch said, chuckling as he leaned back to stare at the ceiling. “I’m warning you. It looks awful.”
    “I’m sure I’ve seen worse,” Aunt Tillie said, moving the fabric and making a disgusted face. “It’s infected.”
    “Oh, well, thanks. We couldn’t have figured that out on our own,” I deadpanned, irritation washing over me.
    Aunt Tillie widened her eyes, surprised. I rarely yelled or snapped at her. That’s one of the reasons we get along so well. “Calm down, Marcus,” she comforted. “It’s going to be okay.”
    “He says he’s dying.”
    Aunt Tillie shifted her eyes to Dutch, her expression thoughtful. “Do you really think you’re dying?”
    Dutch nodded. “It’s only a matter of time. I don’t expect you to help.”
    “Why haven’t you called an ambulance?” Aunt Tillie asked. “Doctors might still be able to help him.”
    “No doctors,” Dutch barked, grimacing. “God, that hurts something fierce.”
    “He’s afraid of being arrested,” I supplied. “He doesn’t want to go to jail.”
    “We’re not going to press charges,” Aunt Tillie countered. “He won’t go to jail.”
    “He stole from Mrs. Little, too.”
    “Oh, well, that woman is evil,” Aunt Tillie said. “She’ll press charges. We’ll deal with her once we get Dutch here on his feet. I’m going to need some supplies, though.”
    “I figured,” I said. “What do you need? I’ll get it.”
    “I’m also going to need help,” Aunt Tillie said. “He’s very sick. I need a … power boost … for what I have planned.”
    “A power boost?” Dutch looked alarmed. “You’re not going to cut my stomach out, are