stiches
Chris was conscious by the time Melissa was ready to stitch the cuts. She'd almost called an ambulance -- the three deep gouges across Chris' stomach screamed hospital -- but Chris had come here, had come to her, and there were a dozen reasons why he might be wary of Beacon Hills Memorial.
"How bad?" His voice as barely more than a whisper. His eyes followed the deft movements of her hands.
"Bad enough," she told him, the pulling the needle up to finish another stitch. "You should be in a hospital."
"She'd look there," Chris said. His voice had strengthened. "She won’t guess...she wouldn’t think I’d come here."
She could have asked who’s she? Should have, perhaps. But she couldn’t shake the certainty that Chris wouldn’t have asked for her help if it would have put him in danger.
It would almost have been reassuring if he'd flinched or winced as she stitched up the gashes -- instead he lay perfectly still, his chest rising and falling.
She realised they were breathing in time.
"There," she said, tying off the last stitch and reaching for the gauze. "You're going to have to stay still for a couple of days."
Chris' exhalation was the closest she'd ever heard him come to laughter.
"You're not going to help anyone if you're dead," she told him, in a voice she'd used more than once on recalcitrant patients.









