“What the hell,” and led her through his bedroom to the bath. She stayed right on his heels, not taking the time to stop and look around because a delay might prod him to change his mind. His well of patience with people was woefully shallow. She did get a quick look around; her impression of his bedroom was the same as his living quarters: spare, functional. Even the area rug was more for function than decoration, helping keep the cold from his feet. His bed was covered with a dark green blanket, no bedspread. There was one pillow.
The bathroom was more of the same, larger than she’d expected, double sinks, both a tub and a separate shower with a glass door. It smelled of soap and felt somewhat humid. It had been so long since she’d encountered that combination that she skidded to a stop, her brow knitting in puzzlement. The shower door was open, and she noticed that the floor of the shower was damp. Not only that, the towel hanging on the rack looked recently used.
“You . . . your shower still works?” And though the wood-burning stove was in the living area, the bedroom and bath were warmer than she’d have expected, certainly warmer than hers was.
“Gravity system, and solar panels for heating the water.”
Hot water. She swallowed a moan. She missed television, she missed being able to go to the grocery store and buy whatever she wanted, she missed central air and heat, but most of all she missed being able to take a hot shower.
He got out an impressive first-aid kit and placed it on the vanity, then lowered the lid on the toilet and straddled it backward. “Just put some clotting powder on it and I’ll be fine.”
Sela unzipped the sturdy black kit and spread it open, looked through it to see what was there. She took out antiseptic wipes, antibiotic salve, the envelope of blood-clotting powder, some adhesive bandages, looked for some disposable gloves but didn’t see any and mentally shrugged. Somewhat hesitantly she turned on the hot-water faucet, because despite what she was seeing, believing verged on a miracle. The water began flowing.
“Oh my Lord,” she said softly as she picked up the soap and began washing her hands.
“What?”
“Running water.” Her hands were clean. She didn’t bother drying them, just took two pads of gauze, held one under the water, and then plopped it over the bloody one on his back. The other pad of gauze she pressed against his skin below, to catch the red rivulets. When the bandage was soaked, she gently peeled at it again. The stuck part released a little, but more blood began welling up.
“Just pull it off, get it done,” he said, glancing over his bare shoulder at her.
Maybe that was the best way, because it was going to bleed regardless. The pad was soaked, she couldn’t get it any wetter. Wincing a little, she caught hold of the upper edge of the pad and gave it a firm pull. It came free, and she immediately slapped it back over the wound and put as much pressure as she could on it.
“Use the clotting powder.”
“Just dust it on?”
“It takes more than that.” He leaned forward some. “Pour it on and pat it in with your fingers.”
She tore open the envelope and poured some of the white granules on the bloody wound, then used her finger to wipe most of it into a pile where the bleeding was worse, where she then patted it in as he’d instructed. After a few seconds the clotting began, and in less than half a minute the bleeding had stopped.
In silence she began cleaning around the wound, then, when the bleeding didn’t resume, she gently blotted away the stained granules. The skin was broken in a jagged pattern, rather than a cut. The area around it was swollen and bruised. “Too bad we don’t have ice,” she murmured, then paused. “Or do you?”
“Not at the moment.”
Indicating he could have ice if he wanted it bad enough. “What don’t you have?”
“No satellite television, air conditioner, or internet.”
“I miss all three of those,” she admitted softly, blotting the wound with an antiseptic pad. “Not as much as running water, though.” She examined the jagged edges. “I think you do need a stitch or two.”
“Not bad enough for me to go hunting someone to sew me up, unless you’re volunteering. There are sutures in the kit.”