What little medical supplies we have are in the closet under the stairs, tucked away in a wicker basket beneath the small table beside my cot. As I dig them out, I remember all the times I lay on that mattress, bleeding and broken, holding on because I couldn’t let Delia go on alone. I had to be strong for her. I never let her see me cry, no matter how bad the wounds were. I always turned my face into the pillow when she had to set a bone or when the needle entered my flesh. Most of the time I wasn’t even conscious until after she finished sewing me back together again.
But that’s over now. McBane is gone, gone, I’m still not quite comprehending that fact. With Delia’s kit in my hands, I stand and look around the small room—at the clean sheets that cover the bloodstains, the cot that now
