This kind of thing wasn't Phoenix's forte. He wasn't any kind of doctor; heck, he'd never even been a Boy Scout. He knew the kind of common-sense first aid you figured out from your parents and television, with a sprinkling of the specialized knowledge that came from years of studying and arguing murder cases - mostly a sizable mental catalog of what kind of damage it took to kill a person and how fast that happened.

Edgeworth sounded like he was ripping up cloth, and took the moment to dig out his flashlight after he'd put the kid down on one of the beds, bracing it between his jaw and his shoulder as he picked inexpertly at the largest patch of blood darkening his gray shirt. He gave a low noise as the hole-speckled shirt peeled away from a wide, shallow gash, too ragged to have been inflicted by a bladed weapon. He looked up at the next spot quickly - or tried to. Whatever was bleeding was soaking through a wad of gauze, and Phoenix was willing to bet that there was a mess of torn-out stitches under it.

"I think that should hold us," he replied to Edgeworth, pressing the shirt back down over the first wound and holding it there hard. "It looks like a bullet graze on his side and . . . I can't tell, something bandaged he tore open on his shoulder." He was also visibly beaten-up, a mottled mess that would be black and blue by tomorrow morning, but that wasn't something they could do anything about.