Page 50 of He Sees You
The main door is open when I arrive, her key still in the lock.
Careless, but understandable given the circumstances.
Inside, I find her in my kitchen, trying to wrap her ankle with a dish towel.
Blood seeps through her jeans where she must have scraped her calf on the window ledge.
She's found my first aid supplies already, having gone through multiple drawers to locate them.
Resourceful.
The dish towel is actually a good choice—clean, absorbent.
But her hands are shaking too badly to tie it properly.
"You came," she says, not looking up.
"This is my cabin."
"You know what I mean." She finally meets my eyes, and there's something wild there. Not fear—exhilaration. "You led him away."
"Temporarily. He'll circle back once he realizes he's chasing nothing." I move toward her, noting how she doesn't flinch. "You're hurt."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding on my floor."
She looks down at the small puddle of red. "Sorry. I'll clean it?—"
"Sit." I guide her to the couch, then retrieve my proper medical kit—not the basic first aid supplies she found, but the comprehensive one I keep for real injuries.
It's extensive—when you live isolated and engage in my particular activities, you learn to handle your own wounds. "I need to see your ankle."
She hesitates, then extends her leg.
I kneel in front of her, carefully removing her boot. Her ankle is already swelling, bruised purple-blue, but not broken.
Sprained at worst.
"This might hurt," I warn before gently manipulating the joint, checking for breaks.
She hisses but doesn't pull away. "You've done this before."
"Many times." I wrap her ankle properly, firm but not too tight. "The calf now."
"I can?—"
"You can't see it properly. Trust me or bleed out. Your choice."
She stands, unbuttoning her jeans with steady hands, pushing them down to reveal a deep gash along her calf.
It needs cleaning, possibly stitches.
I work in silence, cleaning the wound carefully.
She watches me the entire time, her gaze heavy on my face.
"You're not afraid," I observe.
