I did as she said. She left me there, without saying a word.

I sat there, feeling her bed beneath my thighs. She slept here. Her body lay here every night. In what position? On her back, securely, in the middle of the bed? Curled up like a newborn baby? Or on her stomach, turned away from everything?

I bet that she slept on her stomach.

She wasn’t gone long, and in her hand she had a first-aid kit. She put it down next to me on the bed and opened it.

“Here you go.”

“What?”

“Here you’ll find what you need.”

“Can’t you . . . ?”

“You got yourself into this mess. Now you can straighten it out as well.”

I blinked, a rivulet of blood flowing down from my forehead. “But it’s hard to see.”

“That’s your problem.”

“Can’t you . . . ?”

“Do you want Lou to see you like this?”

“No.”

“Then get to it.”

Lou. She was with Francis. He had kept her away from the fight. He must have.

But now she was certainly worrying about where I was. Maybe she regretted refusing to go with me to the Red Cross and was sitting with Francis in despair. Blaming herself for the entire fight maybe, thinking it was her fault, even though nothing in the world was her fault.

Hurriedly I opened an antiseptic towelette. I had to be quick. I dried my cheekbone where I could feel that it was bleeding.

She was with Francis for sure. They had such a nice time together, for sure hadn’t heard anything, hadn’t heard the screaming, hadn’t noticed how much time had passed. And she was too young to blame herself.

I took another towelette and quickly wiped the knuckles on my right hand. They were already starting to turn purple.

“Do you have a mirror?”

“No,” Marguerite said.

She remained seated directly across from me. She watched to make sure I removed all the blood, nodding now and then in confirmation, but made no sign of moving.

“Would you mind?” I handed her the ragged towelette.

“You’ve gotten rid of most of it now,” she said, without accepting it.

“Thanks.”

I took a strip of Band-Aid and a pair of scissors out of a box and clipped off a piece. Approximately five centimeters. That would have to do. Peeled off the backing, stuck it to my cheek.

Marguerite gave me a curt nod. I had apparently put it in the right place.

I pulled up my T-shirt, ran my hand down my ribs on my left side. Pressed my fingers against my rib cage. First gently. Then a little harder. I tried to keep from moaning.

I stood up and my right leg almost buckled under me. I had taken a blow there, a blow so hard that it felt like the muscles had snapped.