“You’re welcome.”
“But you’re still being a baby about the bandages.”
I scowl at her as she studies all the scars on my body.
“You really don’t take care of yourself,” she decides.
“I’ve been taking care of myself just fine for years.”
“Right. These scars are just decorative.”
“They’re an occupational hazard.”
She hums to herself, and I study the way her hands press against the bandages. She has scars, too. On her fingers. I wonder how she got them.
“There.” She sits back when she finishes. “All done. Try not to reopen them by being stubborn.”
I turn to face her, and she’s looking at me with an expression that’s part satisfaction, part lingering annoyance.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much. See how easy that was when you weren’t acting like a wounded bear the whole time?”
Despite myself,
