I nod permission, though I’m not sure if I want him to touch me. But I do want to know that I can trust him. So I guess it’s a test of sorts.

He gently grips my heel between thumb and middle finger, just behind the wound. He presses gently. Shifts position, presses again. “Does this hurt?”

“A little.”

“How about here?” He presses into the arch of my foot, and I lurch out of the love seat as bone-deep pain zings up into my leg.

He lets go. “Sorry!”

I fall back, gasping.

“That puncture is deep,” he says. “I’m surprised you’re on your feet. And you should definitely take that antibiotic. I’ll clean it and re-wrap it for you.”

“You . . .” I catch my breath and try again. “You seem to know a lot about this.”

He rips open a package of gauze and runs it under the water. He adds a tiny bit of liquid soap, then presses it gently to my heel. “Momma was a PA,” he says as he works. “But she was a suture tech while she put herself through school. She helped people sometimes. The ones that didn’t have health insurance. I picked up a few things.” His gaze grows distant. “I was going to be pre-med.”

I study the top of his head. For someone who doesn’t want to talk about broken dreams, he’s awfully forthcoming.

He takes the rest of my bottled water and pours it over my foot to rinse it. Water puddles on the concrete floor. “I’ll clean that up in a sec,” he says. “What about you? What were you going to major in?”

“I hadn’t decided,” I say, bracing myself for pain, but in spite of his huge hands, Trey has a delicate touch as he bandages the wound. His fingers are warm and dry, and they almost tickle. “My stepdad Paul was an engineer, specializing in vertical access wind turbines. He was working toward sustainability and decreasing our dependence on foreign oil and all that. Progressive stuff. I thought he was going to change the world.”

“You really loved him.” Trey wraps the bandage around the gauze.

I swallow hard. “I wanted to do something important like that. Something that would change the world for everyone who came after me. After going to the WNBA, of course. I thought I had time to figure it out.”

I put my sock back on as Trey grabs paper towels from under the sink and blots the water on the floor. “Maybe you still will,” he says.

“Maybe,” I say, with a shrug.

He pauses, soaked paper towel in hand, and frowns up at me. “That sounded full of despair.”

I frown right back. “I don’t do despair.”