Page 35 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

He stares at me evenly. “Another train won’t come for at least a day. We can’t wait that long. We have to continue on foot and find a car. But the next town isn’t for miles. We should clean up your knee first. An infection will delay us even more. So take your pants off so I can patch you up and we can stop wasting time.”

He grabs his backpack from where it fell and starts rifling through the contents. I thought it was bad enough to send him a picture of my underwear drawer. This is a whole new level.

But I know he’s right. Leaving my knee untreated will only invite problems.

I slip off my boots and shimmy out of my jeans, wincing at the movement. I’ve never felt so ridiculous standing before someone in my underwear—a basic black pair of hipsters, though at least they have a lace fringe.

“Sit,” Luke commands, though the word sounds pinched. He nods at the raised wooden tracks. I ease onto them and he drops to a crouch in front of me. Despite his frustrated air, his hands are gentle as he straightens my right leg to peer at my knee. I hiss in pain as the raw skin stretches with the movement.

He doesn’t apologize for it, nor does he apologize when a yelp flies past my lips as his fingers pry out pieces of gravel. It sparks a memory of my dad doing something similar after I fell as a child rolling around the street with my chunky Barbie roller skates. He scolded me for not wearing the matching kneepads, but his voice was laced with the same pedantic patience as always.

“You have disinfectant?” I ask, forcing the memory down.

Luke nods, pulling it from the first aid kit he took from his backpack. He cups my leg, swiping a damp cotton pad across the abrasion. I suck down a gasp, trying to focus on anything else. Like when the last time I shaved my legs was. There’s not a morsel of my soul that wants to care what he thinks of me, and yet that’s the only other thought in my head. It’s been a few days, at least.

“That should be good,” I tell him once most of the dirt and blood are wiped away. “Now you can go in with the antibacterial ointment.”

His eyes snap up to mine. Something flickers in them. Amusement.

“What?” I ask, peeved.

“You’re kind of back-seat driving me trying to take care of you. I know how to clean a wound.”

“Oh,” I say, not even having realized that’s what I was doing. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

“From when you were in med school?” He grabs a small tin pot from his backpack. “I’m going to use this balm, which should help the healing process.”

“How’d you know I was in med school?”

“You mentioned it after I exorcised the demon from Debra.” Everything from that afternoon is a blur. “How far did you get?”

I close my eyes, tilting my chin toward the sky as he smears the balm over my leg. “Year three. I started rotations and did one in a pediatric office and the ER.”

“You dropped out,” he states the obvious.

“With barely a year until graduation.”

“Why?” His curiosity is surprisingly genuine while lacking judgment.

I swallow, grateful he’s too busy shuffling through the first aid kit for gauze and medical tape. He finds it and begins wrapping the wound.

“I don’t know,” I lie, biting my lip as he tightens the bandage. “Ow.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. This, too, is surprisingly genuine. It feels deeper than the moment, like maybe he’s also sorry for snapping at me for ruining our cover, or for leaving me in the first place.

The stillness of dawn blankets us. With one more cursory look at his workmanship, he zips up his backpack and stands. I let him help me up, testing my weight on my leg. It hurts, but I’ll manage.

“What’s the report?” he asks, handing me my jeans.

“Not too shabby,” I say, taking them. “Though your bedside manner could use some work.”

A brief smile grants me a flash of his white teeth. “Noted.”

Standing makes the reality resurface that I’m half naked in front of him. His eyes linger on my body, but when he catches my stare, he clears his throat and looks toward the sky.

I try to wiggle back into my jeans, but it’s hard to bend my leg with the bandage. “Oh shit,” I say, nearly toppling over. His hands grab my hips, the warmth of his palms against my bare skin making me stave off a shudder. I can’t help thinking about all the places he’s touched me in the past thirty minutes, leaving fingerprints on my skin. First my waist, then my leg, and now my hips.

He only releases me when I start to tug my pants over his grasp. He steps back quickly, as if he hadn’t realized what he’d done. I meet his eyes as I button my jeans. He’s the first to rip his gaze away.