Suturing his leg wound

After an archer in a coastal town fired an arrow that gashed the man's leg just above the knee, the man and the boy took refuge in a storeroom at the end of the town. The man wheeled the grocery cart through the room, shut the door, and pushed the cart against it sideways. He dug out the gas stove burner and tank, lit the burner, and set it on the concrete floor for light. Then he unbuckled his belt and took off his bloodstained trousers. The boy watched. The arrow had cut a gash about three inches long just above the knee; it was still bleeding, the whole upper leg was discolored, and the cut was deep. The broadhead had been beaten out of strapiron—some homemade thing, possibly an old spoon.

The Surgery

The man told the boy to find the first-aid kit. When the boy did not move, he shouted, "Get the first-aid kit, damn it. Don't just sit there." The boy jumped up, dug under the tarp and blankets piled in the cart, and brought back the kit. The man took it without comment, set it on the floor in front of him, unsnapped the catches, and opened it. He reached and turned up the burner for more light. He asked for the water bottle, and the boy brought it. The man unscrewed the lid, poured water over the wound, and held it shut between his fingers while he wiped away the blood. He swabbed the wound with disinfectant, opened a plastic envelope with his teeth, and took out a small hooked suture needle and a coil of silk thread. He sat holding the silk to the light while he threaded it through the needle's eye. He took a clamp from the kit, caught the needle in the jaws, locked them, and set about suturing the wound. He worked quickly and took no great pains about it. The boy crouched in the floor. The man looked at him and bent to the sutures again. "You don't have to watch," he said. The boy asked if it was okay, and the man said yes, it hurt. He ran the knot down the thread, pulled it taut, and cut off the silk with the scissors from the kit. Then he looked at the boy, who was looking at what he'd done. "I'm sorry I yelled at you," the man said. "Let's start over." The boy said okay.

Aftermath and Recovery

In the morning it was raining and a hard wind rattled the glass at the rear of the building. The man stood looking out at a steel dock half collapsed and submerged in the bay, the wheelhouses of sunken fishing boats standing out of the gray chop. His leg was throbbing. He pulled away the dressing, disinfected the wound, and looked at it: the flesh was swollen and discolored in the truss of the black stitching. He dressed it and pulled his bloodstiffened trousers on. They spent the day there, sitting among the boxes and crates. The boy was reluctant to talk, and when the man offered to tell him a story, the boy refused, saying those stories were not true—in the stories they were always helping people, but they did not help people. The man tried to explain that stories did not have to be happy, but the boy said his own stories were more like real life. The man watched him and said he thought they were still here, that a lot of bad things had happened but they were still here. The boy said it was okay. They had pulled a worktable up to the windows and spread out their blankets; the boy lay on his stomach looking out across the bay. The man sat with his leg stretched out. On the blanket between them were the two pistols and the box of flares. The boy admitted he did not have good dreams—they were always about something bad happening. The man said that was okay because good dreams were not a good sign. The boy said he had heard the man crying one time, and if the boy should not cry, then the man should not cry either. The man agreed. The boy asked if his leg was going to get better, and the man said yes. The boy pressed, "You're not just saying that?" The man said no. The boy said it looked really hurt. The man said it was not that bad. The boy asked if the man who shot them was trying to kill them, and the man said yes. The boy asked if the man had killed him, and the man said no. The boy asked if that was the truth, and the man said yes. The boy said okay.

Removal of Sutures

Two days later they left the town, the man limping behind the cart and the boy keeping close to his side until they cleared the outskirts. The road ran along the flat gray coast with drifts of sand that the winds had left, making heavy going. They had to shovel their way in places with a plank they carried in the lower rack of the cart. They walked out down the beach and sat in the lee of the dunes and studied the map. They brought the burner with them, heated water, made tea, and sat wrapped in their blankets against the wind. The following day they passed through the boarded ruins of a seaside resort and took the road inland through a pine wood. At noon, in the best light there would be, the man sat in the road and snipped the sutures with the scissors from the kit. He took out the clamp and set about pulling the small black threads from his skin, pressing down with the flat of his thumb. The boy sat in the road watching. The man fastened the clamp over the ends of the threads and pulled them out one by one, leaving small pin-lets of blood. When he was done, he put away the clamp and taped gauze over the wound. Then he stood and pulled his trousers up and handed the kit to the boy to put away. The boy asked if it hurt, and the man said yes. The boy asked if he was real brave. The man said just medium. The boy asked what the bravest thing he ever did was. The man spat a bloody phlegm into the road and said, "Getting up this morning." The boy said, "Really?" The man said no, not to listen to him, and told him to come on, let's go.