Chapter 8: Stitches

The first aid kit was in the cupboard over the glue pots, and it was nearly empty.

Lena dumped it on the workbench and found gauze, a roll of tape, one bottle of antiseptic and a card of sterile strips.

"You need a doctor," she said.

"I need a clean bandage."

"That's a cut to the muscle."

"It's a scratch."

"Then take your coat off and let me look at your scratch."

He took it off with his good hand and let it drop.

Under it he wore a black shirt with the sleeve sliced open and stuck to his arm.

She cut the cloth away with her bone-handled shears.

The wound ran six inches along the outside of his forearm.

It was deep and clean and it was still bleeding.

Her stomach lurched, and she put the back of her wrist against her mouth and breathed until it settled.

"Lena."

"I'm fine. It's only the smell."

"Let me do it."

"You only have one good hand. Hold still."

She poured the antiseptic over the cut.

He hissed through his teeth, and the muscles in his arm went hard under her fingers.

"I have a curved needle in the second drawer," she said. "Waxed linen thread. If you move, I'll use it."

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

"Don't be charming. I'm holding a knife."

"You're holding scissors."

"Close enough."

He laughed, a short breath through his nose, and the sound warmed her to her fingertips.

She pressed the gauze down hard to stop the blood and held it there.

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