She pulled back the blanket.
Her eyes went directly to my legs.
No hesitation.
No pity.
No little involuntary wince.
She pressed her fingers against the top of my left foot.
“Swelling.”
“I noticed.”
“No, you didn't.”
I frowned.
She looked up.
“You don't have reliable sensation there. That's not an insult. That's anatomy.”
I almost told her to watch her tone.
Then I remembered she'd said essentially the same thing the day we met.
“My house,” I'd told her.
“My hourly wage,” she'd answered.
I had stared at her for a full five seconds before laughing for the first time after the shooting.
That morning, she elevated my foot on a pillow.
“I'm checking the skin after your bath.”
“You always do.”
“Because pressure injuries don't care whether you're rich.”
She rolled the portable shower chair closer.
I watched her prepare everything.
Movements economical.
Practiced.
No wasted sympathy.
“Why do you stay here?” I asked.
