Page 58 of Fight

She doesn’t respond, and we simply crouch shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the flames.

“Thank you for starting a fire.” She unzips and shrugs out of her coat. Nodding in my direction, she encourages me to do the same. “Get down to your base layers.”

“In a minute.” I’m too tired to move.

“Are these boots wet?” She reaches down and unties the knots in my laces.

“How do you think I found the stream?”

My toes are numb. While she does that, I turn off my headlamp. I don’t need to see how pale they are. I sit down, and she yanks at the boot, removing it from my foot, then peeling off my wool socks. Even with the dim orange light from the stove, my feet look like they belong in a morgue. She rubs them carefully and guides me to sit closer to the crackling fire.

“Agh!” I say as my heels feel like they’re getting poked with needles.

“Wimp,” she mutters, pulling off her own boots and socks. Hers are equally pale, save for the delicate pink nail polish on her toes.

“It fuckin’ hurts,” I argue.

She ignores me, pushing down her soft-shell pants.

I raise an eyebrow. “How big of a show are you gonna give me?” I ask, mostly to piss her off. She’s kinda hot when she’s feisty.

“You’re a dick.”

I shrug. “Well, I’m a dick that’s going to keep you warm tonight… You have no idea how many women would love to be on the receiving end of that sentence.”

She scoffs. “I’m aware of your proclivities. You don’t need to rub salt in the wound.”

What’s that supposed to mean?I roll my eyes and scoot back to grab the first aid kit hanging on the side of the island. “Speaking of wounds…”

I shove the box toward her. She pops the latch and digs around until she finds a sterile alcohol pad, then brings it to her forehead to wipe away the dried blood; however, without a mirror, she misses a lot of it. I watch her struggle until I can’t take it anymore.

“Here, give it to me… close your eyes.”

She does, and I flip my headlamp on, aiming it at her forehead. It’s the first time I’m getting a good look at the gash alongher hairline. Dried blood cracks, flaking off as I clean up the crusty edges. It’s a gnarly cut. She probably should have gotten stitches. I fold the pad in half and dab off the rest of the dirt on her face.

“How is it?” she asks.

“Better. You’re gonna have a decent scar though.”

“I don’t remember how it happened.”

“Still have a headache?” I mutter.

“I took some ibuprofen, it took the edge off.”

“Concussion?” I ask.

“Probably.”

Shit. I don’t know what to do for a concussion. “So what do I have to do? Make sure you don’t fall asleep or something?”

She shakes her head no. “I’m able to hold a conversation with you?—”

“You’re able toarguewith me,” I correct.

“Even better. Besides, if I decide to stroke out or have a seizure, there’s nothing you’ll be able to do about it anyway.”

“So the cup’s half full, then?”

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