Chapter 8: Knuckles

On Saturday morning eleven kids showed up at the garage, and I taught them how to fall.

It was the rent, and it was also the best hour of my week.

"Tuck your chin," I said. "Slap the mat with your whole arm. Don't catch yourself with your hands."

A nine-year-old in a dinosaur T-shirt threw himself down so hard the mat bounced.

"Like that?"

"Like that, but on purpose."

He did it again, and then he did it twenty more times, and so did everyone else.

Caleb stood at the heavy bag with his arms folded and did not interrupt once.

When the last parent had picked up the last kid, I sat on the edge of the mat and looked at my hands.

The knuckles on my right hand had split open on the third man's jacket four days ago. I had been hitting a bag with them anyway.

Blood had dried across two of them.

"Let me see," Caleb said.

"It's fine."

"It's not."

"It's a scrape."

"I'm a paramedic. Give me the hand."

I gave him the hand.

He sat on the mat across from me with a first-aid kit between his knees and turned my hand over very carefully.

His fingers were warm.

He cleaned each knuckle with a swab and said nothing while I hissed.

Then he took a roll of white tape and began to wrap my hand, over the back and between the fingers, and then across the palm.

He did it slowly.

I could feel his thumb when it pressed against my wrist.

His pulse was loud under my fingers, and I realized I had them against his arm.

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