"Wh-" He looks up at Meyer, and then says a little sullenly, a little petulantly, "It's my arm." But to his credit, he does stop touching it, just tries to roll his shoulder and gives a bit of a hiss.

He can't help it. He's been through an awful lot in his career; he's been kidnapped, he's been shoved in the trunk of a car, he's been beaten more times than he can count (once with a bag of money, for Christ's sake), and he's even robbed a fucking train, but he's never actually been shot before. Shot at, held at gunpoint, but he's never physically gotten a bullet in him. It's a new experience, it fucking hurts, and he's really not sure what to do with it. So he guesses he'll take Meyer's word for it.

"Whatever," he concludes as he snatches up his things, sticks the gun back into the waist of his pants and slings his jacket over his shoulder as he follows after Meyer. "There's, uh." He wracks his brain, mulls it over and gives a minute shake of his head as he stands over the body with Meyer. "Lemme think." He knows he'd better make it fast.

With another shake of his head, he holds out his hand. "I don't know. Lemme see the keys." If Meyer'll hand them over, he'll unlock the car, throw his jacket inside and then kick at one of the dead guy's feet. "Gonna have to. Ain't like you're gonna get him in there yourself. Gimme a hand, wouldja?" And he grabs at the shoulders of the guy's jacket, hoists him up a little and lets out a strained groan as a white hot shot of pain runs down his arm. This is gonna be rough.