Scott is trying to wiggle himself out of his shirt and Denise is watching him, wishing she could wipe the paint away from her mouth because it’s itching and giving her acne. Of course, with more paint, she could make herself forget just about everything stressful in her life, and that’s something that might happen later if Scott calms down enough that he can be left on his own for a while. Scott is out of his shirt, and he’s fingering one of the nail holes in his chest, his face puckered and sour. The bleeding has stopped; the wounds are more ugly than dangerous, though if he gets a septic infection, there aren’t any doctors around to take care of it. “They look sore,” Denise says, nodding. “Shut up,” Scott matches a bitchy voice to his bitchy face. He flexes his arm and eyeballs the nail marks in his bicep and near his elbow. “They hurt,” he says finally, putting his arm down.
