“Gerard, you don’t throw hammers at Johnny,” Mam repeated for the tenth time when we walked back into the kitchen, having just returned from the out-of-hours doctor for a quick stitch-and-go. “Fine,” Gibsie huffed, folding his arms across his chest. “But you remind him right back of what he’s not supposed to do to me.” “Oh, Lord, save me from the stupidity of teenage boys.” Setting her handbag down on the island, Mam ushered us both onto the stools and sighed heavily. “Johnny, you don’t smother Gerard with your bloodied T-shirt and trip him up. You know he gets squeamish around bodily fluids.”
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