Chapter 7: The River

I stayed at my desk until the office was dark.

The apartment Howard had given me was empty and quiet, and I did not want to hear myself think in it.

At nine I read the lawyer's letter again, then shoved my chair back too hard.

My hand caught the edge of the metal filing cabinet.

It opened a long red line across my palm.

I swore and pressed my other hand over it.

"Don't bleed on the carpet."

Kate stood in the doorway with her jacket over her arm and her laptop bag on her shoulder.

"I wasn't planning to."

"Show me."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine, it's dripping. Sit."

She dropped her bag and went to a cabinet in the corner. She came back with a white first aid box and pulled the other chair around to face mine.

Then she took my wrist.

Her fingers were cool and steady.

She turned my hand palm up under the desk lamp and looked at the cut.

"It needs a stitch," she said. "Or glue. Does it hurt?"

"Only when I'm being looked at."

"Funny."

She uncapped an antiseptic wipe and wiped the cut clean. I hissed through my teeth, and she did not let go.

I looked at her hands.

Her nails were short and unpainted. There was a faint pale line across her left thumb, an old scar.

She put a strip of tape across my palm, then another.

Then she stopped.

Her thumb was resting on the inside of my wrist, right over the pulse.

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