Page 12 of Professional Consult

“Calm down?—Calm down!”I’m so disoriented, I can’t think straight. My feet dance, trying to find a safe place to land, but every time I put my foot down, I feel pinpricks of pain.

Luke jumps to his feet, wraps his arms around me, and lifts me, setting me back down on the cot. If I didn’t hate him so much, I’d feel like one of those damsels in a romance novel.

“It hurts!” I yell.

“I know, just give me a second,” he growls.

He grabs one of my feet. I try to yank it back, but his grip is solid.

“Just hang on a minute. I’m trying to help.”

I relax, reminding myself that he too is a victim.

Luke inspects one foot, picking tiny shards of glass from my flesh, then moves to the other. But it’s not my feet that worry me.

It feels like a bee has stung my eye. I have to resist the urge to rub them, which isn’t easy.

“Do you have a pair of tweezers?” I ask.

“Yeah?”

“I need you to get them.”

“That can wait until after I’m done cleaning the bigger shards in your feet.”

“I feel something in my eye.”

“Shit…”he mumbles, rushing from the cell.

He comes back a minute later carrying a huge white case with a red cross on it.

“Don’t move.”

I try to keep my eyes from fluttering as he digs through the first aid kit.

“Let me have a look.” Luke shines a blinding light directly into my eye.

“Jesus Christ—if the shard doesn’t blind me, you will!”

“I’m just trying to see if there’s glass in your eye, is all. Now hold still.”

Steel-grey eyes examine me. “There’s a tiny little sliver of glass that I’m going to get, but you have to promise me you’re not gonna move.”

“Hurry and get it done.”

Before I have time to blink, Luke dips the tweezer toward my face and extracts the tiny shard of glass, setting it aside. Then he returns his gaze to me.

“It looks like there’s a slight scratch on your cornea, but it’s not too concerning. I have some antiseptic eye drops to help.”

“Oh-kay…”

“Your feet have a few minor abrasions, nothing deep enough to require stitches. I’ll clean them up and bandage them, then, if you’d like me to drive you to urgent care—”

“I don’t want to go to urgent care. Just do what you can.”

He spends the next twenty minutes tending to my wounds in silence, his jaw tense, his eyes barely blinking.

When he’s done, he packs his tools away and hands me a bottle and a pack of bandaids.