I glance at Niahm as she carefully maneuvers the truck into the driveway. She wouldn’t even let me drive. I’d be amused if I weren’t so worried about how we’re going to explain my suddenly healed arm to her. It had taken my knife and some pain to reopen the wound in Niahm’s bathroom before she took a look at it. I wanted to make sure it would stay for her inspection, but had cut too deep as she declared it necessary for stitches. We walk into the house, Niahm watching me with worry etched across her forehead. I put my “good” arm around her and give her a reassuring squeeze. In the kitchen, I sit in the chair, and she sits directly next to me. “Niahm,” Shane says, professionally unwrapping his suturing kits to Niahm’s widened eyes. “Would you do me a favor?” “Sure,” she answers immediately. “In the hallway closet there is a small bin. Can you get that for me?” “Okay,” she answers readily, and I wince at the deception required to pull this off. She gives my shoulder a squeeze as she passes me then does as asked.
