I saved the file, closed the laptop, and walked out into the cold.
My breath came out in clouds, and the wind cut through my coat like it wasn't even there. I crossed the frozen mud, my bootscrunching on the thin crust of ice that had formed in the tire ruts.
"Ben."
He didn't turn around. His shoulders were hunched, his hands gripping the edge of the toolbox like he was trying to lift it but couldn't quite manage.
"Ben," I said again, louder this time.
He looked up. His face was drawn, pale under the work lights. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping.
"I'm good," he said. His voice was rough, strained. "Just finishing up."
"Your hands."
He glanced down at them, then quickly looked away. "They're fine."
They weren't fine.
Even from five feet away, I could see the blood. His knuckles were split open, the skin around them cracked and raw from the cold. His fingers were curled into stiff claws, trembling as he tried to grip the latch on the toolbox.
He couldn't close it.
"Get inside," I said.
"Liv, I'm?—"
"Now."
I didn't wait for him to argue. I turned and walked back toward the garage, trusting that he'd follow. Behind me, I heard him curse under his breath. Then the sound of boots on frozen ground, slow and reluctant.
The space heater was still humming in the corner, throwing off enough warmth to take the edge off the brutal cold. I grabbed the first aid kit from my crate of supplies and set it on the folding table.
Ben stopped in the doorway, his shoulders filling the frame. He looked at the first aid kit, then at me.
"I'm fine."
"Sit," I said, pointing at the overturned bucket I'd been using as a stool.
"Olivia—"
"Sit down, Ben."
He hesitated. Then, slowly, he walked over and sat. His hands hung between his knees, fingers still curled into those useless claws.
I knelt in front of him and reached for his right hand.
He pulled back. "You don't have to?—"
"Give me your hand."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then, reluctantly, he extended his hand. I took it carefully, cradling it between both of mine. His skin was ice-cold, the knuckles swollen and bleeding. There were splinters embedded in his palm, and the cuts along his fingers looked deep.
"Jesus, Ben," I whispered.
"It's not that bad."
"It's bad." I looked up at him. "Why didn't you stop? Why didn't you say something?"
