Under the Northern Lights(16)

“Michael, a hand?”

He looked my way and froze. His eyes were glued to my hips, and I was again reminded that he lived most of his life in isolation. I pulled my jacket down as far as I could, and his eyes snapped to my face. “Of course,” he murmured, seemingly embarrassed. At least we were both uncomfortable with this.

Removing his hat, he ran his fingers back through his hair—it was long and scraggly and just as dark as his beard. “The fire’s going . . . it will warm up soon.”

A shiver ran through me, a physical reminder of the chill I’d momentarily forgotten. Michael walked over to the couch. Tenderly, he placed his hands on my shins. Even though I knew I was about to be in pain, his touch was surprisingly comforting. “This might hurt a little,” he said.

I gritted my teeth in anticipation. “I know.” Lying down flat, I pressed all my weight into my good leg and lifted the bad one.

Michael waited a moment, then gently pulled off my pant leg. In my head, it was going to hurt as badly as when I’d sprained it, but much to my relief, it wasn’t as horrible as I’d imagined it would be. Once the pant leg was off, I let out a low, even breath.

“Good,” Michael murmured. “One more, and we’re done with this part.” My other one required me to put more weight on my bad leg, but I found that if I moved onto my hip—while being careful to avoid the wound in my thigh—it was tolerable.

Once my pants were off, I sighed a prayer of thanks. Michael heard and gave me a quizzical look, but he didn’t say anything about it. “I’m going to heat some water, clean this up so I can see how it’s healing. Then we’ll take a look at your ribs. In the meantime, I’ve got a little something for the pain.”

I raised an eyebrow in question, and he smiled as he moved over to a long counter with deep shelves beneath it. Bending over, he started gathering supplies he’d need—a first aid kit he kept in a Rubbermaid tub, a thick gray blanket, and a bottle of whiskey. I had to assume that was what he’d meant for the pain.

A small laugh escaped me, but I snatched up the bottle when he lowered it to me. I’d been in pain for far too long; a small reprieve was just what I needed. Sitting up, I pulled the cork out of the bottle. Michael draped the blanket over my good leg, giving me some warmth while keeping my injured leg exposed. I was hesitant to look at my injury again and took a swig of the golden liquid instead. It burned, but I knew that burn meant eventual numbness, so I embraced it and took another one.

“Easy,” Michael told me, heading over to the stove. “You don’t want to make yourself sick.” Grabbing a pot, he filled it with water from a five-gallon bucket in the corner and set it on the stove to warm.

Once the water was started, Michael opened the first aid kit. The amount of supplies he had in the tub was impressive. Living out here full time, he had to be prepared for everything.

“So how do you know how to do all this? Stitch people up, wrap ribs? Did you train as a survivalist before coming out here?” I asked, pointing at the bin. He had things in there that definitely weren’t standard issue in a kit, including what looked like a scalpel and a small hand saw; I did not want to know what he might use those for.

Michael searched through the tub until he found a bag full of elastic bandages. “No, I’m a doctor. Or I was, before I came out here.”

Surprise washed through me. “A doctor? Why . . . ?” Why would a doctor be out here alone in the woods?

He smiled as he stood to go check on the water. “Why did I become a doctor? I liked helping people.” His voice grew quiet, and his eyes grew sad. Turning his back to me, he grabbed the pot of warm water, removing it from the stove.

Why he’d become a doctor hadn’t really been my question, but his expression evaporated my original curiosity. Why would the thought of helping people make him look so full of . . . despair? And if he liked helping people, why was he living in isolation? All of those questions felt too rude to ask right now, so I stayed quiet.

Michael walked back over with the water, then flashed me an embarrassed smile like he was grateful I hadn’t pried. Dipping a cloth into the pot, he started washing my skin. It was uncomfortable, especially around the stitches, but manageable.

I took another small sip of the whiskey, then pushed the cork back on and set the bottle down. A numb warmth was already beginning to envelop me, and Michael was right—I didn’t want to overdo it and get sick. I knew from experience that vomiting with cracked ribs sucked.

Michael smiled when he was satisfied with how my stitches looked; I took that as a good sign. “Everything is okay?” I asked.

He nodded. “As far as I can tell, the branch didn’t nick an artery. Your muscles will take time to heal, but the stitched skin is doing nicely. You’ll just need to continue taking it easy, and that will be a lot simpler now that we’re here.”

Now that he was done with my thigh, his professional eye moved down to my ankle. He jostled and twisted it in a way that made me cringe. “You can stop that anytime,” I snapped.

“Still sore then?” he said, letting go.

“Yeah.”

“But you can move it on your own?”

“Yes, I just don’t want to.”

“Humor me,” he said with a small smile.

I let out a groan worthy of a sullen teenager but did what he asked. It hurt less when I moved it, but it still didn’t feel good. I had full mobility, though, so it probably wasn’t broken.