Page 16 of Luna & Andres

"Let me boil some for you," he offered.

Vincent released my hand and scooped up the empty can of beans. He jogged to the river and knelt at the edge. I clutched my wounded hand and watched him scrub and rinse the can several times. He returned to me. I stepped back and watched him set a rusted, broken grate over the fire. He put the can on the grate and stepped back.

"There. We'll have clean water in no time," he assured me.

"You don't have to go to all this trouble," I told him.

He sheepishly grinned at me. "To tell you the truth, I-well, I really want to."

I blinked at him. "But why?"

He blushed and turned away. "N-no reason. Anyway, I'll go find some clean bandages. There might be something on the shore that we can use."

"Don't bother," I replied.

I gingerly pulled off my coat with my uninjured right hand and tossed it onto the drum. The clean shirt beneath my coat was a plain white t-shirt. I grasped the short sleeve and pulled. The seams held.

"Just my luck that I'm wearing the only Chinese-made shirt that won't tear. . ." I muttered.

"Would you like some help?" Vincent offered.

I tugged again. The stitch held tight. I sighed and dropped my hand. "All I can get, but watch that you don't scratch me."

He blinked at me. "Scratch you?"

I nodded at his hands. "I've heard enough about werewolves to know a scratch is all it takes to make one."

He glanced down at his palms. "I. . .I guess that might be true."

I sighed and turned away from him. "Then just be careful, okay?"

"I'll try," he promised.

He stepped over to me and took hold of the sleeve and shoulder of the shirt. A quick tug and I heard the seam tear. The sleeve slipped a few inches down my arm. I grasped the edge.

"Let me," Vincent requested. He pulled the torn sleeve down my arm and over my burned fingers. I instinctively flexed my fingers and winced. "Why don't you sit down?"

I tossed my coat over my shoulders to ward off the chill of the night and sat on the drum. Vincent tore the sleeve into strips. The water boiled and he soaked the rags in the clean liquid. He scooted a rotten log close to my drum and seated himself beside me.

"This is going to hurt a little," he warned me.

I frowned at him. "I'm not a-ouch!" He'd grabbed my hand and spread my fingers.

He winced. "Sorry." He wrapped each burned finger in the damp cloth. My skin burned, but I held my tongue.

I raised my head and studied him. "You say that a lot."

He paused and looked up at me. "Say what?"

"That you're sorry."

He pursed his lips and resumed his work. "Sorry."

I couldn't suppress the snort that escaped my nose. "See what I mean?"

A smile slipped onto his lips. "Yeah, I guess I do. I'm-I mean, I apologize."

"Fewer apologies, more wrapping." I jerked my head towards the river. "Just looking at that thing makes me think I've contracted an illness."

---