“Tragic,” she deadpans, testing the numbed area with a small poke. “Feel that?”
“Only emotionally,” I reply. “If I pass out, please lie to my squad mates and say I was brave.”
“If you were unconscious, I could do my job in peace.”
Another jab. But with less bite. She’s warming up to me.
“Hey, unfair! What if I was being conversational because I’m afraid of needles?”
She remains unmoved. “Life’s not fair. Now hold still unless you want a scar shaped like the state of Texas.”
I mime zipping my lips, watching her as she works. Her hands move with precision, the needle dipping in and out of my skin in a neat, even pattern. I know she feels my gaze on her from the flush that creeps up her neck—almost definitely annoyance, but a guy can hope.
I should look away, but I can’t.
“Almost done,” she says after a while, making me wish the cut was deeper and needed more stitches. “The good news is, with proper care, this shouldn’t leave much of a scar.”
“And the bad news?”
“You’ll have to find a different way to impress women.”
I bark out a surprised laugh. “Ah, you admit my heroics were impressive!”
She gives me a look that could freeze lava. “You need a tetanus shot.”
“Will it hurt?”
“Sorry. We only offer popsicles to patients under ten.”
“What if I’m really, really brave?”
She ignores me again, finishes the last stitch, and snips the thread with a decisive click. “There. I’ll dress it now, then give you the shot.”
She applies an antibiotic ointment and covers the wound with gauze and tape. Even with the anesthetics and plastic gloves between us, my skin tingles every time she grazes it. And despite her clear desire to be rid of me, her touch is gentle.
She discards her gloves and washes her hands. “Lower your collar over your shoulder,” she says, holding another syringe.
I obediently offer my uninjured side, flexing slightly—not that I’m showing off or anything. If her eye roll is any sign, she’s not impressed.
The needle slides in with minimal discomfort, and I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “Didn’t feel a thing.”
Without comment, she disposes of the syringe and makes a note in my chart.
“Any chance I could get your first name…” At her glare, I quickly add, “For my thank-you card?”
“You’re free to go, Mr. Collins. Come back in eight days to remove the stitches.” She brushes me off for the third time. “Keep the wound clean and dry. Change the dressing daily. No swimming, no heavy lifting with that arm for at least a week. Cover it with plastic wrap when you shower. If you see redness, swelling, or pus, get it checked right away.”
She delivers these instructions already halfway to the exit with the rapid-fire efficiency of someone who’s said them a thousand times and concludes with a dry, “Goodbye.”
“Thank you,” I call after her, but she’s gone, disappearing past the door faster than a mouse escaping a closing trap.
I sit staring at the space she occupied, feeling oddly bereft. Then I shake it off, grab my gear, and head to the lobby where Martinez, Diaz, and Brett from my squad are waiting.
“All patched up, Lieutenant?” Martinez asks, standing as I approach.
“Good as new,” I confirm, showing off my bandaged arm. “Hey, do you know anything about the nurse who stitched me up? Finnigan?”
My mates exchange a stare I can’t decipher.
