The bed gives a little as he plants a knee on it and reaches to brush away the strands of hair--real or imagined--that have strayed near the wound. "Try to hold still." He says it because he needs to say it, not because she needs to hear it.

Don peels back the bandage, inspects the twin punctures--the skin pale and puckered. Tries to reduce them in his mind to two marks, the canvas irrelevant. "Doesn't look infected," he says, replacing the bandage. "That's something."

He twists around, lets his head fall back against the headboard before turning to look at her. "How do you feel? Be honest."