He stands straight, naked to the waist, dabbing and swabbing until the bleeding slows. He opens the cupboard and gets out scissors and a little white packet and a clear bottle. His movements precise. He unscrews the bottle and tips its contents over the cut. Then he gets out a needle and thread. He threads the needle and pokes the point into the skin on his cheek and stitches the wound together. He knots and snips the ends. A light sheen forms on his forehead. Other than this, he does not seem to feel anything at all. He washes the blood from his face and stands looking in the mirror.

She takes a step backward.

His eyes fall upon the door.

He pulls it open and smiles. The stitches pucker. “Hello, little one.”

Ava smiles cautiously. He bends toward her and picks her up and sits her on the counter to face him.

“It is important,” he says, “to know what to do when you’re hurt. You can’t always rely on a doctor. Don’t worry, my bird. I’ll teach you these things. So you will know.”

He takes a syringe from the cupboard and sinks the tip into a vial of liquid and fills the glass barrel. Then he presses the plunger with his thumb until a bead of liquid bubbles at the needle tip. He flicks the syringe with his finger and slides the needle into his bicep and slowly pushes the plunger down.

He tosses the syringe in the trash. He pats her leg.

“Sit and help me shave.”

From the drawer he takes a jar of cream and a shaving brush and something made of smooth black wood, the handle about the length of his palm. He lays a clean white towel on the counter next to her and spreads his tools on it.

“Proper shaving,” he says, “is an art.”

He opens the jar and dips the brush in and strokes the cream along his jaw and cheeks, avoiding the stitches. Then his chin. Ava breathes softly: She breathes him in. He smells like wild things. When he finishes spreading the cream, he looks at her. “Do you want to hold my brush?”

Ava nods. She holds the brush in one hand. In her other hand, she clutches the monkey. The soft velvet fur. She touches her cheek to the fur and hopes the monkey will stay very still. The monkey watches Bardem. Watches him pick up the black wood. From the handle, he unfolds the long straight razor. The silver blade catches the sunlight and flashes off the mirror, a bright gleam in the glow of morning.

He does not look at her. He says, “You’re a good girl. My little bird.”