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"Clementine Murphy. Strong Irish name, is Murphy," the masked man said, at the end of a wet sigh. "I think it strange it customary for ladies of station to learn medicine and arms," he added, apropos of nothing, as he slid off the soldier's arm and into a slump along the wall. A prodigious smear of blood marked his new reliance on the wall for support. He was still fully conscious and talking, not that he made a lot of sense even in the best of times. He rattled off her phone number.
"No hospital," he said, sharply, with a strength he hadn't possessed before. Matthew was not a fool. He knew that even in this world, there was something unique about him, and in his world, unique people were burned on dry tinder while schoolchildren had a break and sweet rolls to eat while they watched.
"The roof," Matthew said. "And await her. She will advise." Matthew was under the impression that it likely he would be cold meat in the morning, or perhaps in a month. People did not often survive wounds like this, especially since there was few weapons against infection in his time. Then again, Matthew possessed truly inhuman healing abilities, and he hadn't died yet. He put one bloody palm back against the wall and hauled himself upward.