"Yeah. Can't ask Beth right now. Will is busy. It's only a few stitches. If you'd rather not, though..."
I examine the wound. It's a couple of inches long and doesn't go very deep. Still nasty. Still in need of stitching.
"I'll run to the clinic and grab proper equipment," I say. "Give me five minutes."
I really do run. Beth is gone, thankfully, because Dalton is right--we don't want to bother her with this. There are two emergency kits, which include sutures. Anders had carried one caving. Dalton just hadn't asked to use it because, well, that's Dalton.
I grab a kit, lock the door, and get back to him. As I walk in, he downs his shot of tequila.
"Smart man," I say. "This won't tickle."
He grunts.
"If it's any consolation, I actually have done this before," I say. "When I was a kid and my stuffed animals would rip, I'd use sutures. Does that make you feel better?"
I smile as I look up, but he only nods.
I clean the wound. "I'm kidding. Well, not about stitching up my toys. I did that. There actually was a time when I wanted to become a doctor. Of a sort. A veterinarian."
"Why didn't you?"
I laugh softly as I finish cleaning. "My parents freaked. Operate on animals? To them that's a waste of good medical supplies. You only become a vet if you aren't good enough to be a 'real' doctor. They took away my toys so I couldn't play animal hospital anymore."
I prepare the suture thread, still talking, mostly to keep him distracted. "But I have sewn people. Myself, actually. When I was fourteen, I went whitewater rafting without telling my parents. Sliced up my leg. Stitched up my leg."
"You stitched your own leg?"
I shrug. "They were teaching me a lesson."
"Your parents made you stitch your leg?"
I slide the suture needle in. "It was fine. They supervised and gave me topical antiseptic, probably better than the one I just used on you. And it was a spot I could reach easily enough."
He's quiet, and I figure he's gritting his teeth against the pain. When I finish the stitches, though, he says, his voice low, "That's fucked up, Casey."
"Hmm?"
"Your parents made you stitch your own leg to teach you a lesson? That's fucked up."
"Which is why I don't usually share those stories. People get the wrong idea."
"Wrong idea?" he says as I clean the stitched wound. "They took away your toys because you wanted to be a vet. They made you stitch up your own goddamned leg. You do realize that's not normal, don't you?"
"My parents had their ways. Their ways were harsh. They thought they were preparing me for a world that was equally harsh." I pause in my cleaning. "Do I realize some of what they did was 'fucked up'?" I meet his gaze. "I do. But they're dead."
He nods, as if understanding. There's no one left to confront about it. No one to hate. So I don't. I can't.
I put aside the suture needle to clean and then get my shot of tequila. I lift the bottle, asking if he wants another, but he shakes his head.
"I need to get back to Beth. She shouldn't be alone tonight."
I nod. He gets his jacket on, wincing slightly, but makes no move to leave, just looks around the station.
"Anything you need from me?" he says. "Before I take off?"
When I say no, he looks almost disappointed.
"Okay. Guess I'll go, then." He eyes the door without moving, and I can tell he isn't eager to get back to grieving, but he's right--Beth needs someone there, and there's really no one else who can do it.