Page 3 of King of the Weld
Everything about her screams privileged upbringing. From her posture to the way she holds the mug with her pinky slightly extended. Even half-dead and dressed in rags, she has the bearing of someone who was taught how to enter a room properly.
"Your feet need changing," I say, nodding toward the kitchen chair. "Sit."
She hesitates, then complies, wincing as she settles into the chair. I kneel in front of her, setting my own coffee aside as I reach for the first aid kit I keep under the sink. When I gently take her right foot in my hand, she tenses.
"I won't hurt you," I say, not looking up as I begin unwrapping the soiled bandage.
"I know," she replies, though her foot remains rigid in my grip.
Her feet tell their own story. Soft, uncalloused—the feet of someone who's never worked a day in her life. But they're strong too, high-arched and graceful despite the cuts and bruises that cover them. I clean each wound slowly, applying antiseptic that makes her hiss through her teeth.
"Sorry," I mutter, though we both know it's necessary.
"It's fine," she says, and I can feel her watching me. "You've done this before."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Army medic training. Everyone in my unit had to learn the basics."
"You were a soldier."
Again, not a question. I nod, focusing on wrapping fresh gauze around her foot rather than meeting her eyes. I don't like talkingabout my service. I don’t like thinking about it either, though my mind rarely gives me a choice on that front.
"Afghanistan?" she asks.
My hands pause for just a moment before continuing their work. "Among other places."
She doesn't press further, which I appreciate. Most people can't help themselves. They want details, war stories, the kind of shit that makes them feel patriotic or grateful or whatever. They don't really want to know the truth of it.
I finish with her right foot and move to the left, which is in even worse shape. A particularly deep gash crosses her heel, angry and red-edged.
"This needs stitches," I tell her.
"No hospitals," she says immediately, her voice tight with panic.
Her face is striking even beneath the dirt and exhaustion. High cheekbones, full lips, dark eyes wide with fear. Beautiful, in the way dangerous things often are.
"I can do it," I say finally. "Won't be pretty, but it'll hold."
Relief washes over her face. "Thank you."
I retrieve what I need from my emergency kit. Needle, surgical thread, more antiseptic. When I return, she's sipping her coffee, knuckles white around the mug.
"This will hurt," I warn her.
"I can handle it." The determined set of her jaw makes me believe her.
I clean the wound thoroughly, then prepare the needle. "Ready?"
She nods, setting the coffee aside and gripping the edges of the chair. I work quickly, making neat, small stitches just like Iwas taught. To her credit, she barely makes a sound, just sharp intakes of breath and the occasional tremble of her leg under my hand.
When I finish, I wrap her foot with care, then sit back on my heels. "Done."
She releases her death grip on the chair, flexing her fingers. "You're good at that."
I shrug, packing away the supplies. "Had practice."
"On yourself too?" she asks, and something in her tone makes me look up.
"Sometimes," I admit.
