Meanwhile, Marvalyn frantically tried to make everything right. Like she always did. It was her best quality. And her worst. “Oh, you must be!” she insisted. “I just clocked you! Where did I get you?”

“In the head,” said Steve.

“In the head!?!” cried Marvalyn, deeply concerned that she had injured this poor guy. “Oh, God!”

Steve was making his way back to the bench, having retrieved his THINGS THAT CAN HURT YOU book from under the clothes-folding table.

“Okay, listen,” ordered Marvalyn, “I need you to sit down and stop moving.”

Steve obeyed and sat down and stopped moving.

“Come here,” ordered Marvalyn, going to Steve. Which confused him. Because when you tell someone to come here, they’re supposed to go to you. And not the other way around. “Where in the head did I get you, exactly?” continued Marvalyn.

“Um, right here, I think.” Steve pointed to the top of his head.

“Oh, no,” Marvalyn groaned. “Are you okay?” she asked, sitting down and checking Steve’s eyes, and then holding her index finger in front of them and moving it from side to side to see if he could follow it. “Are you okay?” she asked again, trying to think of what else she had learned about diagnosing head injuries in her one semester in the nursing program at Northern Maine Community College in Presque Isle.

“Well, is there any blood?” asked Steve.

“No,” answered Marvalyn, perplexed by the question. She was wondering why he would have thought there might be blood. Sure, he had suffered a good hit to the head. But she was sure she had hit him with the flat surface of the ironing board. And a blow from the flat surface of an ironing board isn’t going to break skin.

“Is there any discoloration?” asked Steve.

“No.” Marvalyn wondered why he would be asking if there was any discoloration when she had hit him on the top of his head. Hair would cover any bruising. And Steve had a lot of short, thick black hair. But she checked his scalp for blood and for bruising to be sure. And found neither.

“Any swelling?” asked Steve.

There was no swelling either. Not yet, anyway. “No,” she answered.

“Then I’m okay.” Steve gave Marvalyn a thumbs-up and smiled a smile that didn’t look like a smile. It looked like a smile that someone who was trying to make the right emotional choice would make.

“Okay,” said Marvalyn, not quite sure what to make of this kid—or this guy—who smiled strangely and asked peculiar questions. “Well—I’m really sorry about that. I didn’t even see you,” she added.

“It’s okay. Most people don’t,” stated Steve simply and not seeking sympathy.

But Marvalyn didn’t hear him, because she was on her way out of the laundry room. “You stay right there; I’m gonna go get you some ice,” she called.

“No, you don’t have to do that.”

She stopped and turned to Steve. “Yes, I do, and some aspirin. To keep the swelling down and for the pain.”