Despite all the fear that grips my heart, the stranger does not seem ready to hurt me. Or maybe I am misjudging him, but his hand rests on my upper back slowly, leading me to lean back and sit on the floor.
"Let me see those-" he mutters, more or less to himself, his hand taking hold of my wrist and pulling my hands up to his face, taking a long pensive look at my blistered hands.
I'm not sure if he frowns because he doesn't like what he sees or because I keep trying to free my hand from his grasp with violent tugs and soft whiny treats. Everything stops, along with my breathing, for a few moments, when his eyes cut from my palms, to my face and our gaze stops on each other.
He seems pissed, and I feel fear.
"Don't you think that if I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it long ago
