Page 52 of Redline Baby

"I'm not finished, Mr. Matthews," the nurse sighs. She continues. "You've got a significant shoulder sprain, probably with some soft-tissue damage from the impact. I want you in a sling for comfort, limited use of that arm, and you need follow-up if the pain or range of motion isn't improving."

Kit's face has already begun rearranging itself around the words no fracture.

"So basically I'm indestructible."

"No," I say.

"Resilient?" he asks. I chuckle softly. This boy is impossible.

"Also no."

"You're lucky," the nurse says. That shuts him up.

Not for long.

"This needs a few stitches. There's debris in the deeper part of the cut, so we're going to irrigate it thoroughly first."

Kit's eyes shift to the supply tray. I watch the exact moment he realizes what that means. His good hand closes slowly over the edge of the exam table. A nurse brings in supplies while the practitioner washes her hands.

Kit sees the syringe.

His entire body goes tighter.

"Okay," he says, pointing at it with his right index finger. "Here's a thought. What if we skip the whole needle situation entirely and use superglue? I've seen it done. Very effective. Minimal scarring. I'll sign a waiver."

"We're not gluing this," the nurse practitioner says, and I feel it takes a lot for her to even give him an answer.

"Duct tape?" he tries again. "I'm not picky. I've fixed a lot of things with duct tape. Exhaust pipes, fairings, emotional trauma—"

"Mr. Matthews," the nurse says. "I need you to hold still."

The irrigation starts. Saline runs hard through the deeper laceration and across the road rash. Kit sucks in a breath through his teeth. Sharp. His shoulders pull tight.

"Okay," he says, voice strained. "That's... yeah. That's unpleasant."

The practitioner continues flushing debris from the wound. Kit's jokes speed up.

"And I like pain. Voluntarily. Usually with better ambiance. Have you ever considered a career in something less stabby? Customer service? Pottery? Floristry seems peaceful."

His breathing has gone shallow.

I take the stool beside the exam table.

The practitioner picks up the anesthetic.

"This part is going to sting. The anesthetic burns going in, then I'll give it a couple of minutes before I test the area."

Kit stares at the syringe.

"See, that's honest. I appreciate that. We're building trust."

The needle goes in near the edge of the laceration.

Kit flinches sharply inward.

His good hand locks around the table. His breathing gets faster. The jokes stop halfway through the third.

I extend my hand.