Charlie nodded and sprinted to the kitchen. The sound of water running into the stainless-steel basin of the kitchen sink came only seconds later.

“And no funny stuff, okay?” Joe shouted. He listened for a response. “You hear me?”

“Yes,” Charlie said, popping his head back into the room. “Now what?”

“Get a bowl and fill it up with the hot water. Grab some clean rags and bring everything in here as quick as you can.”

“How do you know what to do? Are you a nurse or something?”

Nurse? What was the kid thinking? “Just get it!” Joe said.

Joe pulled Grandma Rose from the chair and laid her out on the floor. He propped the ankle of her bad leg up on the chair and tied a tourniquet around the top of her leg, tugging until he felt certain there was no possible way even a drop of blood could travel past the rope blockade.

Charlie entered the room a minute later, water sloshing out of a crystal punch bowl that Joe guessed had never been used. Probably a wedding gift. He helped Charlie set the bowl on the ground, then began sopping up the bloodied areas on Grandma’s leg with the large rag Charlie had brought with him.

“What is this?” Joe asked, noticing the rag wasn’t a rag at all. Hand-stitched flowers dotted the fabric, which was silky and smooth, definitely not the terry texture of cloth used to clean up spilled milk.

“It’s my mom’s best tablecloth.”

Joe continued to clean Grandma’s wounds, sponging up the blood and wringing it out in the crystal bowl. “Why did you grab your mom’s best tablecloth?”

“It was the cleanest thing I could think of. Mom won’t let a crumb drop on it whenever she uses it, which is only when really important guests come over.”

Joe leaned back on his knees. “I don’t think there’s anything more we can do right now. But I think she’s going to be okay. She’s not losing any more blood.”

“Thanks for helping her,” Charlie said. “What’s your name?”

“Joe.”

“I’m Charlie. You’d make a good nurse, Joe.”

“Doctor.”

“Nurses don’t have to be girls, you know.”

Joe rolled his eyes, feeling silly explaining himself to a child. Of course he knew that. “I’m just saying that if I was going to go into the medical profession, I’d be a doctor, not a nurse. Like maybe a brain surgeon or something.”

Charlie looked puzzled. “I don’t think you could be a brain surgeon.”

“Why not?” Joe asked, perturbed.

“Because I’m only eight, and I totally fooled you in the attic, which means you can’t be that smart.”

“You didn’t fool me,” Joe said. “I knew exactly where you were.”

“Spell lyceum.”

“What?”