Page 59 of Blood & Snow
After the last time she doctored me, I have no doubt she can help.
This should be basic first aid for her now, not the borderline surgery she did last time.
The line goes quiet for a moment before she says, "I'll be there in an hour."
As promised, an hour later, Nadya arrives carryinggrocery bags and a medical kit stolen from her sister's nursing supplies.
She takes one look at my torn shirt and sets everything on the kitchen counter carefully, but her eyes are locked on me with concern etched on her forehead in crevices.
"What did you do this time?" she snips, and I chuckle darkly.
"Okay,Mamochka," I say, grinning, and she scowls.
"Take off your shirt," she orders, unpacking bandages and antiseptic.
"It's not that serious. I think I just busted a stitch or something."
"Stop joking around and let me see it already."
Nadya is a force to be reckoned with and I know my decision to keep her was a good one.
Markov will see it too when he allows himself to.
I comply, peeling the blood-stained shirt off and tossing it aside.
She sucks in a breath when she sees the reopened gunshot site, touching the inflamed skin with gentle fingers.
"This is infected," she hisses in disapproval.
"You should be in a doctor's office or polyclinic, not getting second-rate cleanup in a filthy house."
"Those sorts of places keep records. Records create problems."
It's my turn to hiss as she presses on the wound with gauze meant to stave off the bleeding.
"Problems don't matter if you're dead from sepsis."
She opens a bottle of antiseptic and douses a slip of gauze in it before cleaning the wound.
Then she turns to retrieve a few pills from the bag of wonders she's brought.
"Take these now and two more tonight. No alcohol, no strenuous activity with that arm for at least a week."
"I don't have a week for rest," I protest, but I take the pills and dry swallow them.
"Then you'll have eternity for rest when this infectionreaches your bloodstream."
She soaks another cloth with antiseptic and continues cleaning the wound.
"Hold still and let me work."
Her touch is gentle but thorough, removing dried blood and examining for signs of complications.
I watch her face while she works, noting the concentration that furrows her brow and the way she bites her lower lip when focusing on difficult tasks.
"You're good at this," I tell her, and it's torture not reaching up to touch her.
I resist, but I know what's coming.
