Chapter 6: The Burn

"That's you," I said, without turning around.

"That's me at twenty-four," Odette said from the hallway.

"It looks like me."

"I know."

She said it so quietly that I almost missed it.

I turned, and my hand knocked against the skillet of potatoes still sitting on the stove.

I had grabbed the iron handle without thinking, to push it out of the way.

The pain came a second later, white and sharp.

I yanked my hand back and swore.

Odette dropped the towel and caught my wrist before I could think.

"Cold water. Now."

She pulled me to the sink and held my palm under the tap.

Her hands were shaking so hard the water splashed on both of us.

"I'm sorry. I should have moved that. It's my fault."

"It's my hand. It's my fault."

"Then it's both our faults," she said, and her voice broke.

The screen door banged.

Luke crossed into the kitchen.

"What happened?"

"She burned her hand," Odette said.

"Move. Let me see."

He took my wrist from her without hesitating.

His fingers were calloused and very warm, and they turned my palm up under the light.

A red stripe ran across the base of my fingers, already blistering.

"First degree, mostly," he said. "Second where it's white. You'll live."

"That's reassuring."

"I've done worse to myself." He held up his forearms with the pale scars on them. "Ask me about the Tuesday I fell into a vat."

"I'm not asking."

"Good call."

He pulled an aloe plant down from the windowsill, snapped off a leaf and split it with his thumbnail.

The gel was cold and green.

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