John glanced at the thin rivulet of blood that snaked down his arm and back at his mother. “I’m not going to die.”

“Good lord, I can’t,” Margaret said as she set the first aid kit on the table and backed away. “I never could see my own child bloodied. Sandy, you do it. Does he need stitches?”

Sandra removed the towel and peered at his hand. “Nope, just some butterfly bandages and gauze. Go wash your hand, kiddo.”

John stood and took his mother by the shoulder, leading her to his chair. “Sit down, Mom.”

Margaret’s hand fluttered over her chest as she took a deep breath. “I just wish you were more careful, Johnny.”

He stood at the kitchen sink, shoved the sleeve of his gray Henley past his elbow, and washed away the blood. The cut on his palm stung from the heat of the water, but he ignored it. He’d spent the last twenty-one hours ignoring his feelings, one more couldn’t hurt. He hadn’t heard from Victoria and it gutted him. John had to stuff his feelings down and carry on with business as usual. Becca was still his ward and she needed him. Library business still needed to be completed. Had he been any other man, he would have stomped over to Victoria’s house, beat down her door, and hauled her over his shoulder. But he was raised with manners and going full alpha-male wasn’t in his nature.

“That’s good enough, kiddo,” Sandra said, interrupting his thoughts.

He shook out his hand and returned to the table. “It’s not that bad,” he muttered as Sandra slathered ointment along the cut. She bandaged him up and tied the gauze in a neat bow at the outside of his hand.

“Clean that tonight so it doesn’t get infected,” Margaret said, shielding her eyes. “And wash that shirt with cold water.”

“Fine.”

“Alright, what’s got you so bent out of shape?” Sandra said as she washed her hands and returned to the abandoned cookie dough. “You showed up claiming you’d help us with Becca’s cookies and all you’ve done is stew.”

“I haven’t been stewing,” John said.

“You have,” his mother said. “And hold your hand up.”

John raised his arm above his head and held it there while he addressed his mothers. “I’m not stewing, I’m just tired.”

Sandra scoffed. “He’s tired.”

As he stood in the middle of the kitchen with one arm poised for a high-five, he prepared himself for a tag team interrogation. The odds were not in his favor. If John were more honest with himself, he couldn’t handle just one of them on his best day. “No one told me that it was Becca’s responsibility to bring cookies to school. I thought that ended when you got to middle school.”