“Perfect.” He let out a sigh. “Just what I needed.”
He headed toward the small first-aid station they kept near the festival supply shed. Only one person was still there, bent over a crate, sorting through medical kits with surgical precision.
Noah recognized Dr. Simon Hale, Mapleford’s newish physician, not that he knew the doctor all that well. Dr. Hale glanced up at the sound of Noah’s boots crunching on snow, his expression unreadable as always, calm, composed, and lightly exhausted.
“Noah.” His voice was low and neutral. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s a splinter.” Noah raised his hand. “And I’d hardly call that bleeding.”
“A wound is a wound,” Simon replied. He straightened, already reaching for gloves. “Sit.”
“I don’t need?—”
“Sit,” Simon repeated, in the same tone he probably used on all his stubborn patients.
Noah sat on the folding chair.
Simon knelt beside him with a sort of clinical elegance, his gloved fingers steady and confident. He examined Noah’s hand, his brow creasing slightly.
“Mapleford’s annual holiday festival,” Simon said dryly, “responsible for more minor injuries than the Fourth of July and the Harvest Parade combined.”
“So I’m contributing to tradition,” Noah said.
Simon looked at him over the rim of his glasses. “Do you always joke when you’re in pain?”
“Do you always diagnose personalities at first contact?” Noah countered.
Simon’s mouth twitched. “Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.” He angled Noah’s hand toward the fading light, his touch gentle but precise. “You should wear gloves when handling fresh pine,” he murmured.
“I was.”
Simon arched his eyebrows. “Clearly they’re not thick enough.”
“Oh my God,” Noah muttered. “You and Aileen should start a club.”
“We already did. Didn’t you know?” Simon’s eyes twinkled. “It’s called theWe Keep You Alive Despite Yourselfclub.”
Noah snorted. “She’d love that.”
Simon produced a pair of tweezers and worked on the splinter with delicate efficiency. “This should only take a moment. Try not to move.”
Noah knew he was staring at Dr. Hale, even though he did his best not to. Simon was different from most of Mapleford’s inhabitants. It wasn’t that he was unfriendly or cold, more… contained, like someone who’d learned to tuck away whole parts of himself behind tightly controlled lines and soft-spoken precision.
He looked weary, too. Not sleepy-tired, more like heart-tired.
“You’re new to all this,” Noah said in a light tone. “The festival, the chaos, the pine-inflicted injuries.”
“I’ve been here over a year,” Simon said without looking up. “Plenty of time to observe.”
“Yeah, but you still look a little startled every time we start wrapping buildings in garlands.”
“That’s because you insist on climbing on top of them,” Simon said with genuine exasperation. “You gave me heart palpitations last week.”
“That was a stable ladder.”
“That ladder was older than you.”
Noah blinked. “How do you know how old I am?”
