Sitting wrapped in the stranger's jacket at a rickety wood kitchen table beside the warm crackling fireplace, black spots were obscuring my vision. I tried to blink them away only for a pounding headache to seep in with the motion.
"Are you keeping pressure on the wound like I told you?" the stranger rushed down the steps from upstairs and took the kettle off the stove as the it boiled to a whistle.
She poured the hot water into a bowl and carried it to the kitchen table.
My fingers were numb from the cold as I pressed with the effort I had left onto the side wound.
Pulling a chair up, the stranger sat in front of me and hesitated, scanning my face. I didn't meet their eyes and instead looked over at the array of supplies on the table, the open faded red medical kit, the steaming bowl of water, a cloth, some rubbing alcohol, a sewing kit, and a set of clean folded clothes.
"May I?" the stranger asked reaching towards my bloody and torn shirt
I nodded and turned away as they gently removed the jacket from my shoulders and reached for some scissors to cut away my shirt from the wound. I flinched as they peeled away the fabric from my flesh. I wasn't a fan of blood. "Have you done this before?"
"Yes."
There was a silence and I flinched as another piece of shirt was peeled from the open wound.
She stood up and pulled the last of the shirt from my torso and moved to inspecting the back of my shoulder.
"Do you know what happened?" she asked calmly, her hands were cool to the touch and gentle as she pulled away the pieces of fabric from my shoulder.
"No" I answered. A partial truth.
Goosebumps rose on my neck as I felt the breath from her sigh before she moved in front of me, back to the table. She placed the filthy scraps of my shirt to the side and moved the bowl of now slightly cooled water closer to her chair. She sat in front of me and dipped a clean cloth into the hot water and reached towards me again.
I looked away and gripped the base of the chair, "please be gentle"
She picked up one of my hands from the chair and held it, "squeeze if it starts to hurt too much."
I looked at her hand as she worked, her palms and fingers were calloused, I wondered briefly what she did for a living before she spoke, interrupting my train of thought.
"You haven't told me your name, nor asked for mine."
Her eyes remained focused on the task at hand.
"Riley"
She glanced up briefly, "Sam"
