“Johnny, you don’t smother Gerard with your bloodied T-shirt and trip him up. You know he gets squeamish around bodily fluids.” “My bloodied T-shirt,” Gibsie corrected, narrowing his eyes at me. “It was my bloodied T-shirt to match my broken chin.” “You didn’t break your chin,” I scoffed. “You grazed it.” His mouth fell open. “I have a gaping hole in my face!” “Yeah.” I glared back at him. “To match the gaping hole in my head!” “I have four stitches,” he growled, pointing to his bandaged chin. I pointed to my bandaged head. “I have six!”
