“Matty, you got this?” he says. “Trey’s going to help out from the top while I take care of Sadie back at the campsite.”
“Yeah, man,” Matteo replies. “Whatever.”
His mood has done a total reversal from the guy who high-fived me at the bottom of my descent, and the same is true of Thorn. The tension between them is especially high today.
“What wasthatall about?” I ask when we’re out of earshot.
Thorn shakes his head. “We had another talk this morning.”
“Didn’t go too well, I guess?”
“To say the least.”
He’s quiet after that. It’s only a short walk back over to my tent—we stowed both of our packs inside it this morning after yoga.
“I brought a first-aid kit,” I offer.
He grins. “Of course you did.”
It turns out his first-aid kit is more than sufficiently stocked, though. He’s got iodine tablets and antiseptic—liquidandwipes—and all sorts of ointments and gauze and bandages.
Once we’re settled inside my tent, Thorn takes my hand in both of his, gently, and inspects it with a grimace.
“I’m sorry for this,” he says as he reaches into his kit, then holds up a small pair of tweezers. “It will probably hurt a lot worse before it feels better.”
“Your bedside manner could use some work, Thorn.”
“Hey, I’m a hiking guide, not a surgeon.”
“And that inspiressomuch confidence,” I say, laughing.
My laughter turns into a gasp of pain as his tweezers find the first splinter. It feels like a fireplace poker, searing and sudden, like fire straight down to my bones.
“It’s okay,” Thorn says, his voice soft and soothing as he plucks another splinter out. “You’re okay. You’re doing great.”
“That”—I gasp—“was better bedside manner.”
He runs his thumb over the back of my hand. Focusing on how good that feels helps to distract from how terrible the rest of it is.
I’ve engineered my life to feel as little pain as possible. Who doesn’t? I don’t usuallydothings that could result in splinters and open wounds. I do things that involve tasty beverages and comfortable seating locations and pleasant aromas—things that make my senses tingle in a good way.
My senses, right now, are screaming.
“Done with splinters,” he tells me. “There were only a couple.”
I’m just about to say how relieved I am to be past the worst part when—aaaugghhhhh—a white-hot flood of pain eclipses the previous sting, knocking the wind out of me.
“That was the antiseptic,” I hear him say. “It’ll get better from here, I promise.”
He spreads a layer of ointment on. Next comes the gauze, wrapped just tightly enough to protect my hand while it heals.
“I feel like a mummy,” I say when he’s done, admiring his neat work.
“Hottest mummy I’ve ever seen,” he replies, grinning. “You’ve got something—there—”
I glance down at my lavender tank top, which is now marred with a small but noticeable splatter of blood.
“I should probably—” I start, at the same time he says, “I can close my eyes while you change, if you want?”
