Chapter 5: Knuckles

The locker door dented around my fist.

Blood ran down between my fingers and dripped onto the tile.

I stood there breathing through my teeth and staring at the dent.

You're the one who stays behind.

I hit it again with the other hand, and that one hurt worse.

Then I stopped, because I am a nurse, and a nurse knows what two broken hands cost a man who can't work.

I wrapped a paper towel around my right knuckles and walked out to the parking garage.

It was already dark, and the concrete smelled like wet tires.

A woman was leaning against my car with her arms crossed.

"I texted you at noon," Minnie said. "I wrote, She'll go to your work. Don't hit anything."

I pulled my phone out with my left hand.

There it was, unread, under four texts from Maggie.

"I didn't look," I said.

"Clearly."

She looked at the paper towel, which had gone red.

"Sit in the car," she said. "I'm not doing this standing in a garage."

"I have a first aid kit at home."

"I have one here."

I unlocked the car and sat sideways in the back seat with my legs out the open door.

She crouched in front of me, set a red bag on the concrete, and pulled out gauze, tape and a bottle.

She took my wrist and turned my hand over under the dome light.

I knew what a split knuckle looked like.

I had stitched a dozen of them on other men.

"Nothing's broken," I said. "I can still make a fist."

"Don't make a fist."

"Sorry."

"Stop saying sorry to people."

She dabbed the cut with something that stung badly.

I hissed, and she held on tighter.

Her fingers were warm, with dry, rough pads and a little flour in the creases that no soap had reached.

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