“Move them.”
His brows knit, but he does it. Fingers curl slowly into a fist, then stretch open again.
“Again.”
He repeats the motion.
Good.
I press lightly along the muscle of his forearm, watching his face as much as the wound.
“Any numbness?”
“No.”
“Pain when I press here?”
He shakes his head.
“Good,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. “You missed the important parts.”
Tom steps closer.
“Hold him steady,” I say without looking up.
He moves immediately. One hand settles on Dan’s shoulder, the other wrapping around his upper arm just above the elbow. His grip is firm but calm, anchoring the arm in place.
Dan glances at him. “You enjoying this?”
Tom’s mouth tilts. “More than you are.”
I grip the branch with the forceps. “This part’s going to hurt.”
Dan snorts. “Mel, I’ve been married to you thirty years. I know the drill.”
I pull.
The wood slides free with a wet sound and blood wells immediately from the hole it leaves behind.
Dan’s fingers tighten on the edge of the table. He doesn’t make a sound, but I know that tension. I’ve seen it in a hundred quiet moments over the years.
“There we go,” I murmur, dropping the chunk of spruce into the tray.
Fresh blood runs down Dan’s arm the moment the branch comes free. I grab the irrigation syringe and flush the wound mercilessly, forcing saline deep into the puncture. Diluted red swirls into the basin along with flecks of bark and dirt. “Hold still,” I tell him.
Dan exhales slowly. “Trying.”
Behind him, Tom’s grip tightens slightly where his hand braces Dan’s upper arm above the elbow, steadying the limb while I keep flushing until the water runs clear.
I lean closer and study the puncture, gauging depth and angle while my mind runs through what I already checked. Fingers moved. Wrist moved. No numbness. No loss of strength. Good signs. “You’re lucky,” I tell him, reaching for fresh gauze to blot the edges of the wound. “If you’d hit muscle, your hand wouldn’t be moving like that.”
Dan flexes his fingers again as if proving the point. “Yeah, just a scratch.”
“Right—” I try not to roll my eyes, opening the suture kit— “but you’re still getting stitches. And antibiotics.”
He groans. “All that for a scratch?”
“Yes.” Tom’s voice comes quiet and certain from just above him. “Be a good boy.”
