“Good.” He reaches into his pocket, produces a small tin, and pops off the lid. “Hold out your hand.” I hesitate. After my attitude, I’m half afraid he’ll rub salt in my wounds. “Why?” Heaving a sigh, he scoops out a dollop of some kind of clear ointment, crooking his finger. “It hasn’t even been a minute.” “Sorry.” The word is a whisper.
