At the sight of his wounds, my gut churns and shame swamps me.
A humorless laugh escapes him. “I’m not supposed to get the dressings wet.”
“Go take care of that,” I insist. “I’ll handle the dishes.”
He studies me, shirt still pulled away from his torso, a quiet apprehension behind his eyes. Like he wants to be obstinate. Or maybe he just wants to make sure I remember why he’s bandaged and hurting in the first place.
The reminder isn’t necessary. It’s all I think about these days.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows slowly. Then, eyes darting to one side, he whispers, “I can’t reach the bandage that wraps around my side. Sawyer helped me this morning. I…”
Understanding dawns.
“Come on.” I drop the towel and march out of the kitchen before I lose my nerve. “There’s a first aid kit in my room.”
He follows me, his feet scuffing along the floor, and stands in the doorway while I collect my kit.
“Take your shirt off,” I tell him clinically. “Go stand by the bed.”
That way if he gets lightheaded, at least he’ll have a soft surface to land on.
I dip into the bathroom to scrub my hands, then snag my kit off the counter and make my way over without meeting his gaze.
Three of his bandages are saturated, and one has a couple of questionable wet spots.
Head still down, I say, “I’ll change these four, if that’s all right with you?”
“Fine,” he says, emotionless.
“Stay standing.”
I lower to my knees, then put on a pair of gloves and get to work.
Taking off the bandages is easy enough—the medical tape is wet and lifts easily in most places, and Tytus’s chest is hairless, save for the dark happy trail peppering his lower abdomen.
When I’m peeling off the last bandage, he grunts, the sound low but full of pain.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
I don’t look up to gauge his reaction. I can’t.
Instead, I keep focused on the task at hand, never allowing myself to look at any one spot for too long. That night, the paramedics performed some sort of emergency procedure before they whisked him off to the hospital. From the research I’ve done when I can’t sleep, I’ve concluded it was some sort of needle aspiration. That means the healing incisions I’m exposing now are from an additional surgery.
He’s recovering from internal bleeding and a surgery that was only necessary because of me.
“I know the dressings were just changed, but I should clean the incisions anyway.”
It’s an overbearing precaution. But I can’t stand the thought of inflicting any more damage.
“Do what you gotta do, prof.”
With individual alcohol wipes, I sanitize each wound, working carefully but quickly. He doesn’t even flinch.
When I’m certain I haven’t missed anything, I carefully re-cover each area with clean gauze and medical tape.
As I’m working on the last bandage, the one that wraps all the way around his midsection in order to cover a small circular wound above his hip, Ty speaks.
“You’re good at this.”
