Standing there, leaning on a wall, with a gum-selling kid that's asking stupid questions like "Está bien?" Are you alright?
Sands was pretty sure he didn't look alright. He didn't feel alright, after all he had been shot three times and the bloody fuckmook Guevara had ripped his eyes clean outta their sockets.
He was pretty sure he was not alright, but - he was alive after all, wasn't he?
Ramirez had been passing by, not noticing a thing (ore more likely: ignoring his blood-soaked state), but the kid had stayed, so...
Was he alright?
"No sé." He honestly didn't know.
"Estará." You'll be.
No suggestion there.
A statement, a fact.
An order even.
What the heck!? Why not?
He had gotten this far, against the odds - he'd go on from here.
Keeping the balance.
Maybe finding "El" and kicking his dumb-shit, sorry mariachi-ass.
A slow smile spreading.
He'd be alright.
The fire was still there.
The kid taking his hand, leading him away from the wall, from the misery, from the place where he had lost his own balance, away from death.
Succeeding in finding some to help the loco gringo sin ojos, making a hero of him, telling everyone how the American had faced the evil cartelistas, alone and blind, and had downed them nonetheless.
Yes, he would be alright.
In fact, he was sure he'd be peachy-keen again.