Chapter 7: Dressing Change

The campus sports clinic was empty after five, and Mikkel had borrowed an exam room with a good lamp.

He sat on a rolling stool in front of me with a tray of gauze, saline and fresh splints.

"Left hand first," he said. "Give it to me."

I laid my hand across his open palm.

He took off the old wrapping one turn at a time.

Under it, my fingertips were mottled pink and swollen, and three of them had small clear blisters.

"Clear fluid, no blood," he said. "That is the good kind."

"I know. I taught that to a freshman class."

"Then you will not argue when I say do not pop them."

"I won't."

"You are very compliant," he said dryly, and it took me a second to hear the joke.

He cleaned each fingertip with a swab, slowly.

Then he turned my hand over and pressed his thumb into the center of my palm to check the color coming back.

It was a part of my hand nobody had touched in a long time.

A warm line ran from my palm up to my elbow.

I breathed in and held it.

"Does that hurt?" he asked.

"No."

His thumb slid down to the inside of my wrist and stopped there.

I looked at his hand, and then at his face.

He was looking at my pulse under his thumb.

It was going fast.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

"I am checking circulation," he said, in a voice that was a little lower than before.

"Your thumb is on my pulse," I said.

"Yes."

"It's high because I'm tired."

"That is a good explanation," he said, and did not move his thumb.

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