Senna
He is standing today. He looks like a person who could break my house just by breathing too hard. He is not the bleeding mess I dragged off the forest floor anymore.
He is fully dressed in the clothes I cleaned for him. They are a bit tight across his shoulders. The room feels smaller with him standing straight. The air feels heavy, like it does right before a big storm hits the trees.
"You are leaving," I say. It is not a question.
"I am," he says. He moves his arm. He tests the range of motion where the deep gash used to be. "The stitches are holding. You did good work."
"I did the work I was supposed to do," I say. I wipe my hands on my apron. My hands feel restless. They always do when a patient is done. "You still need to be careful for a week. No heavy lifting. No fighting
