“Not at all. Rosa will know exactly what to do.”

She returned her attention to the man on the bed. He had woken while she was washing her hands, and was now struggling to sit up.

“No, please—not yet. Not until I’ve had a better look at you.”

“Are you Nico’s wife?” he asked hoarsely.

“I am.”

“You’re just as pretty as he says.”

“Thank you. How are you feeling?”

“My leg hurts like hell. My arm, too.”

“Does your head pain you at all? Do you have any difficulty in moving your limbs? Do you feel nauseous? No? Good. I’m going to begin by looking at your leg, but first I’ll have to cut off your trousers.”

The man grinned, and was about to say something, but his gaze flickered to a point behind Nina’s shoulder and his smile faded. “I, uh . . . I guess that’s all right.”

“I’ll do it,” Nico stated, the scissors already in his hand.

“All right,” Nina said, “but stay close to the seams. That way there’s a chance the trousers can be repaired after. And watch his ankle and knee when you take off his boots.”

Nina turned away, privately glad to be freed of the task, and was even more relieved when she saw that Nico had laid a towel over his friend’s midsection, though the man’s undershorts were still in place. She began by washing the affected limb, sponging away the dirt and blood, and when she had patted the skin dry she looked over his entire leg, manipulating the ankle and knee slowly and carefully, letting her fingertips discern what her eyes could not see.

“Does it hurt when I press here? Or here?” she asked as she pushed against the bones in his ankle and foot, and was pleased when the man shook his head. His skin color was good, his circulation appeared to be unaffected, and there didn’t seem to be any mechanical issues with his ankle, though it was badly swollen.

“We can’t be entirely certain without an X-ray, but I don’t think you’ve broken anything. I’ll wrap it in a cold compress while I look at your arm.” And then, to Nico, “Could you take one of these towels and dampen it for me? Let the tap run until the water is good and freezing.

“Now for that arm of yours.” With Father Bernardi’s help, she raised her patient to a sitting position and, working carefully, eased him out of his shirt and undershirt. Angry abrasions marked his skin where he’d fallen from the truck, and after washing the injured areas and using the tweezers to pry out stray bits of gravel, she swabbed his cuts with iodine and wrapped his arm in a layer of gauze.

“No stitches required—just a good clean,” she pronounced.