Paint ran down his fist, and blood oozed around the edges of the wood embedded in his wrist. The loose piece in his hand was the size of a domino, and a good four inches of the stirrer stuck out of his wrist, so he guessed there were another four inches inside, up between ligament and bone. He wondered when his skin had gotten so fragile. He felt dizzy, and sat on the steps to clear his head, baring his teeth at the wound.

“Marie,” he said. “Oh, damn.”

He let go of his forearm and fumbled for the rags. Gritting his teeth, he wiped at his hand to keep the paint out of the bloody gash in his wrist. He thought of the girl at the paint store and wondered why she hadn’t warned him of the dangers. He felt betrayed by her, stupidly furious at her, and he set the loose broken end on the paint-can lid to keep it off the deck.

His wrist was bleeding good now, and he tried to remember what to do in this situation. This was a situation. He couldn’t remember if impaled objects should be removed or not. He was breathing hard, and wasn’t sure he could stand up. The sun was low and he checked his watch to see when Marie would be home. A streak of paint hid the watch face, and he wiped his elbow carefully against the crystal, replacing the paint streak with blood. Seven o’clock.

“Come on, honey,” he said. “Come on home.”

He thought he must be in shock; he held his forearm tightly to slow down the bleeding and thought about getting to a phone. He leaned forward to try to stand, but his legs gave out beneath him, almost pitching him onto the lawn; he let his wrist go to catch himself and sat heavily back down.

Jack closed his eyes, thinking if he could calm himself, then he could get up from the steps and walk into the house and call someone, call Marie, maybe call an ambulance, though Christ knew what that would cost and he wasn’t on Marie’s insurance because of his heart. The darkness behind his eyelids seemed to expand and spin, and he opened his eyes wide. People drove themselves to hospitals with broken femurs and gouged eyes; he could damn well do it with a punctured wrist. He thought he could crawl to the garage, and he eased his body down, still clutching his arm. His elbow gave way, and he felt the sticky, damp stain of the deck against his face but couldn’t lift his legs. His breathing grew heavier, inhalations sharp with the smell of new paint; he was breathing too hard, and he was cold, and when he closed his eyes the darkness came on again.