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She put another one on the forehead cut. Blood instantly soaked it.

“Okay, Perry. Tell me what hurts.”

“My ego. I just got my a.s.s kicked by the poster boy for the AARP.”

“Maybe you’re lucky,” Margaret said.

“Well, buy me a f.u.c.king Lotto ticket. How do you figure I’m lucky?”

“Dew’s told me a couple of stories over the past three months. He’s killed a lot of people, Perry. I know you’re big and strong and athletic. You know how to fight —Dew Phillips knows how to kill or be killed.”

“Ha,” Perry said. “He didn’t do either. Does that mean I won?”

Margaret laughed. “See? You’re cracking jokes. You can’t be hurt that bad.”

“Guess again.”

She tossed the b.l.o.o.d.y gauze aside, then poured some peroxide on the cut.

“Does that hurt?” she asked.

“Compared to getting hit with a table leg? Might as well be a sensual ma.s.sage.”

“Good, then just think of this part as your happy ending.”

She proceeded to st.i.tch up his cuts. Six st.i.tches on the forehead, five on the top of the head, and three more on his lip.

“How bad is the eye?” Perry said. “Is it ruined?”

She pulled open his upper and lower eyelids and flicked a penlight at the pupil. The eye was already filled with blood, but the pupil contracted with each flash.

“You’re going to have a h.e.l.l of a s.h.i.+ner, but I think you’ll be okay.”

She made him take off his s.h.i.+rt. Her eyes lingered on the gnarled, fist-size scar on his right collarbone, then inadvertently flicked to the similar one on his left forearm. She’d treated him for weeks and knew of his other horrible scars: on his left thigh, the center of his back and his right gluteus, along with a smaller one on his left s.h.i.+n.

Margaret checked his ribs and found they weren’t broken. He refused to remove his pants, so she had to take his word for it that the thigh was okay. She finished by checking his knee, sliding up the pant leg and using her fingertips to probe the area. It was swollen, but she didn’t feel anything broken, so she dug her fingers in a little deeper to check for ligament damage.

“Does it hurt when I do this?”

“Yes,” Perry said.

“Describe the pain.”

“Is G.o.dd.a.m.n near excruciating a standard medical term?”

She stopped. “If I was hurting you that bad, why didn’t you say something?”

He shrugged. “Me and pain go way back.”

“Well, you and your old buddy pain are going to be spending some quality time together while you heal up from this. Can you make it back to your room?”

Perry struggled to his feet. Margaret tried to a.s.sist, but he was so heavy she felt like a little girl pretending to help rather than making any actual difference. She found a bottle of ibuprofen in the first-aid kit.

“Take four of these and just go to sleep, okay? I’ll come and check on you later.”

He took the bottle and hobbled to the door. He opened it, then turned back.

“Tell Dew I need to see him,” Perry said. “Tell him it’s important, and that . . . and that I won’t give him any more trouble.”

“Can it wait until tomorrow morning? I want you asleep.”

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