And the blood.
There's a dark stain spreading across his shirt, just below his ribs.
"Lupo." I'm across the yard before I can think. "You're bleeding."
"It's nothing. Just reopened something from before. The work was—" He winces as I touch his side. "Don’t worry, it's fine."
"It's not fine." I take his hand. "Come inside. I need to look at it."
"Isabella, I'm filthy, dirty. Too dirty to come into the house like this. I should clean up in the barn first—"
"Now, come with me." I'm not asking.
Elena is playing in the living room when we come in. She looks up, sees Lupo, and scrambles to her feet.
"Lupo! Did you bring me something?"
Despite the pain he must be in, he smiles. "Not today, sweetheart. But tomorrow, maybe."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
I get him to the kitchen table, make him sit. "Elena, baby, can you go play in your room for a bit? Mama needs to help Lupo."
"Is he hurt?"
"Just a little. He'll be fine."
She looks worried but goes, dragging her rabbit behind her.
Once she's gone, I turn back to Lupo. "Take your shirt off."
He hesitates, and I see something flicker in his eyes. Self-consciousness, maybe. Or fear of what I'll see.
"I've seen your scars before," I say quietly. "Many times. Nothing's changed."
Slowly, he unbuttons the shirt. The movement makes him wince again. When he tries to pull it over his shoulder, he can't quite manage it.
"Let me." I help him ease it off, and the full extent of the damage becomes clear.
The wound on his ribs, the one that was healing nicely, has split open. Not badly, but enough that blood has soaked through the bandage I'd applied days ago. And there are new injuries. Scrapes across his shoulder, bruising on his back, blisters on his palms so bad they've bled.
"My God," I breathe. "What were you doing?"
"Carrying lumber. Mixing concrete. Moving scaffolding." He says it matter-of-factly, like destroying his body is just part of the job. "It needed to be done."
"You're not healed enough for this kind of work."
"We need the money."
The simple truth of it silences any argument I might make. He's right.
I get the first-aid supplies and a bowl of warm water. When I sit down next to him and start cleaning the reopened wound, he goes very still.
"This is going to hurt," I warn.
"I can handle it."
