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>Continued
—
"You have to stop doing this to yourself, Charlie."
You are sitting on the front stoop of your porch, one leg curled up to your chest, one leg stretched out all the way. The stretched-out leg is the one with all the blood. "I didn't do anything! All I did was—"
"Run around where all the rocks were? Where your aunt told you <span class="mu-i">not</span> to run? I know you don't like to listen to her, but she's not wrong about everything, primrose. And now look at you."
You sneak a peek at your leg: your father initially described it as having a "real nasty laceration," but backpedaled to "big ouchie" after you started tearing up. You don't know what a laceration is, but your wounded knee, all oozing blood and yellow bruising and tattered skin and bits of black gravel, is definitely a big ouchie. You glance away before you start feeling sick and meet your father's eyes. He smiles at you. "Do you feel sorry at all?"
You bite your cheek. "I'm sorry I fell."
"And?"
"I'm sorry I hurt my knee. 'Cause it really hurts."
"Are you going to go run around in the rocks again?"
"If I go run around in the rocks again," you say, "I won't fall. 'Cause I'll be more careful."
Your father's smile widens. "That's my girl. Now let's get this cleaned up, alright? We wouldn't want to get blood on your nice new dress. Your mother and Ruby would have my head."
"Okay," you say, and swing your leg a little bit. Your father is unscrewing the lid of the cleaner solution. He sniffs it, then dips a rag in it. "Will it hurt?"
"I don't know. Did it hurt all the other times?"
"It hurts when Aunt Ruby does it," you say.
"It... well... I believe she believes that discomfort is part and parcel of a proper childhood."
"Is it? Part and parcel?"
"Maybe a little, but I don't like to see you in pain, primrose. Even if you are handling this well."
"I'm brave," you say.
Your father laughs. "Yes, you are. It may still hurt a little. Keep being brave, please."
He takes the rag to your knee, and you hiss and wriggle. The solution stings nearly as much as the fall did, and it makes the blood foam up all scary pink, but at least your father is gentle with it. When your aunt does it, it's like she's scouring a pot. "Ow!"
"You have a lot of grit stuck in here, Charlie. You're going to have to be patient." Your father lifts the rag and peers down at your knee. "Huh."
You sneak another peek, but you can't see anything through the foam. "What?"
"You must've fallen pretty hard. There's something... er... don't worry. I think there's tweezers in here." He turns around and re-opens the medicine kit. You keep your eyes safely to the horizon. "There we go. Hold still, please. Do you want to hold my hand?"
Uh-oh. You grab his hand and squeeze it. He squeezes it back, leans forward, and starts to poke around. "Wow," he says. "Oh dear." And: "Maybe that's why it's so..."
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