I held out my arm and watched while he fastened the tourniquet around my upper arm. Then he put on a pair of gloves, wiped the crook of my elbow with an alcohol swab, and reached for the syringe.
“Okay, little pinch.”
Why did they always say that? I turned my head away and was surprised when it was just a little pinch.
Not that it mattered. I still wasn’t going to look. Seeing Uncle John have a pig slaughtered on the farm might not bother me—much—but when it was my own blood, that was a different kettle of fish.
“All done,” he said, and I stole a peek to make sure he wasn’t lying to me, but he was telling the truth. He reached for a gauze square, which he folded in two and placed over the draw site. “Hold this in place, please.”
While I did, he used a strip of self-adherent wrap to ke
