Chapter 8: Open Palm

On Saturday afternoon we went through Corinna's desk again, because the notebook had a stiff back cover and neither of us trusted it.

The desk had a bottom drawer that wouldn't open.

It was swollen shut, and the handle was an old brass loop with a split in the metal.

I braced one foot on the leg and pulled with both hands.

The drawer shot out, the brass split my palm from the base of my thumb to the wrist, and I swore loudly.

Blood ran down my forearm and dripped on Corinna's rug.

"Don't move," Elias said.

He was on his feet before I had finished the word.

He took my wrist in one hand and turned the palm up.

The cut was long and shallow and ugly, with a bright line of red.

"I've seen worse on a job site," he said. "Hold still. You need to rinse it."

He walked me to the little sink in the corner.

He ran the cold water over my hand and held it there with both of his own, and the water turned pink and then clear.

The callus on his thumb moved along my wrist.

It was a plain, practical touch, and my whole arm lit up under it.

"You have a burn scar," he said.

"The diner. The fryer." I tried to laugh. "I was seventeen and I reached for a basket."

"It looks like it hurt."

"It did."

He turned my wrist a little in the light and looked at it for longer than he needed to.

Then he took a first-aid kit from his work bag and wrapped my palm in gauze.

His hands were careful.

They were slower than they had been all week, and I noticed that he didn't look up.

"Elias."

"Hold it up. Above your heart."

"You're not breathing."

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