“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’re in pain. If it’s only pain, then you’re fine. But if your wound is festering, you’ve got a serious problem. Just stand up and let me take a peek. Even if you’re fine, your bandage needs to be changed.”

Donatti stalled, then got up from his chair. A moment later, she was close to him, her eyes level with his waist. He could feel her breath on his oversensitive skin. She began to peel back the layers of bandage. As she worked, he focused in on her face, a mask of concentration. Instantly, he was aware of her fingertips brushing against him. Not even a smidgen of sexual overtone.

Rina regarded his wound—red and swollen and oozing. A brownish raised ring sat on the left side of his rib cage. Next to it, the skin was torn and shredded. It was especially jarring because the bullet holes sat on his otherwise perfect body. “You got hit twice. First one’s just a graze wound. Second one went in and out.”

“I’m all right.”

“That may be, but it’s more than superficial. What do you have by way of medicines?”

He reached into his file cabinet and handed her a large plastic shopping bag filled with dozens of vials of pills, creams, ointments, and medical supplies—bandages, tape, clips, cotton balls, cotton swabs, and even a suture needle. The pills were prescription drugs that had been tagged but were without proper labels. No dosage, no Rx, no instructions whatsoever. There were antibiotics, anti-inflammatory medication, anabolic steroids, including a full course of prednisone, and at least ten different types of pain medication, including codeine and morphine.

“Did you get these on the black market or something?”

“I don’t believe in paying retail.”

Rina dispensed with the lecture. She began to sort through the various medications. “What are you taking?”

Donatti sorted through the bottles. “I think I’m taking this one.”

“Amoxicillin?”

“Yeah. Isn’t that an antibiotic? I took it when I had a sort throat.”

“Except you don’t have a sore throat, Mr. Donatti. You have a bullet wound.” Rina studied the medicines. “This will do—Keflex. It might upset your stomach. Take it anyway. You have enough for ten days. You’ll probably need more. What you really need is a doc—”

“Are you done?”

“No, Christopher, I am not done. I haven’t even started. I want to clean this up. To do it properly, it’ll take a while.”

“I’m tired.”

“So am I. The sooner we start, the faster it’ll be done.”

“Then you’ll leave?”

“Yes.”

“Anything to get rid of you.”

Rina told herself to start with the basic. “I need to wash my hands.”

He thought a moment, then reached in his file cabinet and took out several shrink-wrapped packages of latex surgical gloves. Good ones—strong and thin. Rina stared at them, then at him. Then snapped them over her hands.

“Even better.” She sat on a chair while he stood. She took a cotton swab and began to clean the suppurated area.