Page 17 of Break For Me
I unwrap the packing. The blood has slowed to a seep.
I irrigate with saline, clearing the clots to see the damage. The cut runs deep across the palm, splitting the palmar aponeurosis.
The flexor tendons gleam white in the wound. They are bruised but intact.
I probe each one with a finger. I flex and extend his fingers. The tendons glide.
He will keep his function. He will still be able to make a fist.
I begin the sutures. The palm is different. The skin is thick with callouses.
I can feel the ridges of old blisters and the hardened pads at the base of his fingers. A decade of gripping weapons and steering wheels and throats has left its geography on his palms.
My fingertips trace the creases of his palm as I work. It is the most intimate thing I have done in years.
Not because of the touch. I touch bodies every day.
The intimacy is in the history. This hand grabbed me. This hand held a gun to my head while its owner bled out.
I am sewing shut a hand designed for destruction. I am doing it with the care I would give a violinist.
I tie the final stitch and dress the wound. I wrap it in a figure-eight bandage, securing the fingers in slight flexion to protect the repair.
I tape the edges and rest his hand on his chest.
I’m finished.
His eyes snap open.
There is no transition. No gradual waking.
One second he is a corpse. The next, his eyes are wide and his right hand—the uninjured one—is clamped around my wrist.
The grip is crushing. His fingers dig into my tendons, compressing the radial nerve.
A bright, electric bolt of pain shoots up my arm. I gasp. My instrument tray clatters to the floor.
He pulls me down. My face is six inches from his.
His eyes are wild and unfocused. His pupils have swallowed the blue. He doesn't see me.
He sees a ghost. A threat.
"Don't," he rasps. The voice is a torn, guttural sound. "Don't touch him. I’ll kill you. Don't touch?—"
"I’m the doctor," I say. I keep my voice flat. "You brought me here. I’m fixing you."
His grip tightens. The bones in my wrist grind together.
I feel the radius flex under the pressure. He could snap it. He could break my arm like a pencil.
"You brought me here," I repeat, forcing the panic down into my stomach. "Your brother sent you. Alessandro."
The name hits him.
Something shifts in his eyes. A flicker of recognition.
His grip loosens. His fingers open.
