I tighten my hold. "Shhh. I'm here, Bluebird."
It takes a while before she settles.
I carefully state, "I want to see the wounds. Can I do that?"
She lifts her head from my chest. Guilt fills her expression. She whispers, "I'm sorry." More tears fall.
I wipe them. "I know. Let's go into the bathroom, okay?"
She nods, her face scrunched.
I help her up, guide her to the bathroom, and put her on the counter. Very carefully, I take the bandages off.
The skin on her thigh is angry red, dotted with a dozen small puncture wounds. Some still weep; others have the beginning stages of crusting. None of the marks are deep enough for serious damage, but they're enough to hurt like hell. If she keeps doing it, her skin will get scarred.
The cut on her hand is deeper than the pin marks. Blood oozes and doesn't clot over her knuckles. Skin pulls wide apart, and a shard of glass sits embedded in the corner of her pointer finger.
I ask, "How long ago did this happen?"
She shrugs. "I-I don't know. It was still light out."
I take fresh gauze, wrap her hand tightly, and tell her to hold it tight, while I wash her thigh. I clean her leg with antiseptic, and she hisses in pain.
"I'm sorry. It'll stop stinging in a minute," I tell her.
She watches me as silent tears track down her cheeks again.
I pat her thigh dry, apply antibiotic ointment, rewrap it with fresh gauze, and then tape it. I announce, "Your hand needs stitches. I'm taking you to the hospital."
"What? No." She shakes her head. "It'll stop bleeding soon."
I slide my hands over her cheeks. In a firm voice, I assert, "No. It won't. We're going."
Blue's eyes widen, and fresh panic flicks across her face. "Red, no. They'll ask questions. They'll think?—"
"They'll think you need stitches, because you do. And you have a piece of glass stuck in your knuckle. It needs to be removed," I say in the same calm tone I use when a patient is spiraling and needs an anchor, and add, "We're not debating this. You're going."
She opens her mouth, closes it, then drops her gaze to the floor. A long, shaky breath escapes her. She mumbles, "Okay."
Relief loosens the knot in my chest, but only slightly. I help her down from the counter, steadying her when her knees wobble. I lead her into the bedroom, open her dresser drawers, and pull out soft black joggers, an oversized charcoal sweater that swallows her frame, and thick socks.
She stands passively while I ease the top over her head, then guide her arms into the sleeves. The fabric dwarfs her, making her look smaller, more fragile.
I kneel to help her step into the joggers, sliding them up slowly over the bandaged thigh. She winces once when the waistband brushes the gauze, but doesn't complain.
I help her with her socks and tennis shoes, and grab her coat from the closet. I drape it over her shoulders, smooth her hair back as best I can with my fingers, then press a soft kiss to her forehead, murmuring, "You're safe. I've got you."
She nods, eyes glassy again, but she doesn't cry.
The drive to the nearest ER is quiet. Chicago's streets are slick with early evening drizzle, streetlights smearing wet gold across the windshield.
Blue stares out the passenger window, her fingers twisting in her lap. I keep one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her knee with light, grounding pressure. She doesn't pull away.
At the hospital, the ER waiting room is half full. A coughing kid has a fever, an elderly man clutches his arm, and the low murmur of a TV plays reruns. I check her in at triage, giving her name, birthdate, and chief complaint being a deep laceration to the right hand, with glass embedded.
The nurse glances at the blood-soaked bandage and nods us toward a curtained bay.
A young resident in his early thirties, with tired eyes behind wire frames, pulls the curtain closed and introduces himself as Dr. Patel. He unwraps the gauze carefully, examines the hand, and frowns at the shard still glinting in her pointer finger knuckle. He declares, "This needs to come out and get sutured. How did this happen?"
