Vito sat with Henry in the emergency room of St. Francis Hospital. All around them people bustled, people in pain, people intent on helping, people exhausted, people overworked.
“I don’t know how they’ll ever be able to fix this,” Henry moaned. Vito noticed Henry’s hands trembled. “How can they stitch it? There’s not enough skin to even pull together.”
“Hey, look at this.” Vito held out a forefinger. A patch of very smooth skin—scar tissue—crowned the top of it. “Cut the top clean off when I was chiffonading basil, and I came here. They used some kind of foam on it that clung to the cut, sort of like a scab. When the wound closed up, it fell off. Easy. They’ll do the same for you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. You’ll be okay.” Vito patted Henry’s knee.
Henry looked up at him. “Why are you
