“I gotta work fast. Turn around.” Marcos scuttles closer and snaps open the latches on his plastic box—a first-aid kit. Inside are Band-Aids, two spray cans (antibacterial and bug repellent), a roll of gauze, medical tape, a tube of Neosporin, and a bite-sized Hershey bar.

Marcos anticipated Briggs injuring me, and he came prepared. Violence is not only allowed at Nightlight, it’s expected.

I can’t blame Marcos. Having someone at Nightlight actually give a shit about me is too much to handle, as if I’m embarrassed to have such an extravagant luxury as someone else’s concern. Marcos risked serious punishment leaving class to get me from the clinic, and after that narrow escape, he risks it again to patch up my sliced-and-diced torso.

“Should I take off my shirt—?” I ask.

“NO.” Marcos’s answer comes as quick as a switchblade. “Just, um, hike it up a bit.”

Slowly, I peel my shirt like a Fruit Roll-Up, and Marcos’s presence—warm and enveloping—closes in behind me. My flesh ripples with goose bumps—the wound on the small of my back is strangely intimate. As soon as it’s exposed, Marcos’s breath quickens, landing in soft huffs on my neck. “You sure you can do this without touching me?” I ask.

“You don’t gotta be a smart-ass.” Marcos pops the top off the antibacterial spray. Without warning, the hiss of the spray covers my sore, and I yelp like an underfoot dog. Alternating between chilling and burning, I jog in place until Marcos orders me to simmer down. I do as I’m told, but the tingling spreads up my entire back.

“Sorry I act like a dick,” I whine through my burn, “…but I’m a cute dick.”

Silence drops on the office as Marcos smears cool goop over my cut. Why did I have to say “cute dick”? If Molly were here, she’d scream at me again about flirting with Marcos given all the danger we’re in. Before I can change the subject to something other than how close his finger is to my butthole, Marcos finally whispers, “Nah, you’re not a dick. You’re just a doofus.”