Cricket is going to have a nice quiet breakdown later, no question. But for the moment he's calm and aside from the moments of nausea and mild disassociation (not that he knows that term), he thinks he's okay. He knows he's more okay than the man bleeding out here, and so he sets his jaw and tries his best.

He's done some first aid. He patched Jack up after Rakes beat the living hell out of him in Cricket's yard, but that's a memory that still makes him want to scream or cry or break something, so it's not useful here. His hands are shaking. He takes in air and breathes out through his nose, and thinks about Aunt Winnie, instead. Washing up her swollen legs and bandaging wounds there. Helping her out of bed and cleaning up the sheets she soiled, washing her clothes, helping her into the tub and back out. It's just a body and the things that come out of a body, and maybe he shouldn't have had to look after her the way he did, as young as he did, but he got used to it. It's a memory of resigned drudgery, not rage and hurt and terror.

It's better. He stops trembling and follows Steve's instructions without complaint. Maybe the man will live, maybe he won't, but they're trying.

He scrubs his hands clean a little too hard after they're done, but manages to lever himself up from the floor without help. And then, as a reluctant afterthought, he crosses the room and picks up his cane from the corner.

"...Climb onto your..." Cricket looks him over uncertainly. "You can carry that much? You'd go faster without me, either way--I--I'm a'ight."

He's in no frame of mind to argue if Steve insists, though, really.