“Wait a minute,” the nurse said, leaving the room.

A little time passed. I tried talking to Francis, about Lou and me, about how we were supposed to meet my wife here.

He nodded in response but said nothing about himself.

Finally the nurse returned with a doctor. They had clearly already conferred, because the doctor sat down with the man immediately, took his hand in his lap and studied the wound.

“How did you get this?” she asked softly.

The man looked away.

“I cut myself . . . on a saw.”

“A saw?”

“I was going to saw some wood. Didn’t have an ax.”

“This is not a cut from a saw,” the doctor said. “It will be easier for me to know what to do if you tell the truth.”

He raised his head and gave her a look of defiance, but then suddenly relented. “A knife. Three weeks from yesterday. Three weeks and one day.”

“You were lucky,” the doctor said. “Had the cut been an inch or so higher up, it would have done some serious damage.”

“Lucky?” Francis said and I could hear him swallow. “I don’t know about that.”

“I’m going to give you antibiotics,” the doctor said after a moment. “And you must come in every other day to have the wound cleaned.”

“What’s the point of that?”

“The antibiotics will get rid of the infection.”

“And the point of that?”

“Of what?”

“Getting rid of the infection.”

“Do you want to lose your hand?”

He said nothing more.

The doctor surrendered her seat to the nurse, who poured disinfectant over the wound with expert hands and rubbed in an ointment.

Francis was no longer concerned about hiding his pain. Now he swore robustly.

“Hush. The child!” I said.

“Sorry,” he said.

“That’s okay,” Lou said from her corner. “Daddy says things like that too.”

Francis laughed.

The nurse brought another bandage, which she wrapped carefully around his hand.

“It’s too tight,” Francis said.

“How’s that?” the nurse tried.

“Still too tight.”

“I’m loosening it now.”

“It feels like it’s stopping all the blood circulation. You’re going to give me gangrene.”

“It must be wrapped snugly.”

“It must be that damn ointment. It stings.”

“When you clean a cut, it’s supposed to sting,” Lou said softly from her corner.

He peered up at her. All of a sudden there was something boyish about him.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’d forgotten about that.” He stared down at his hand, wrapped in the white gauze bandage that contrasted sharply with his dirty skin, and said nothing more.

“Does it feel all right?” the nurse asked.

“Yes,” he said. “All right.”

Then he discovered the old bandage. It was lying on a steel tray on a table beside the nurse. “What are you going to do with it?”

The nurse looked at him, uncomprehending.

“With the bandage.”

“What do you mean? The old one?”

“Are you going to throw it out?”

“Yes, of course.”

Francis didn’t reply.