Chapter 5 - Improvised Surgery in Booth Four
Dora held his gaze for another beat, then slowly lowered the coffee pot, setting it down on the counter with a heavy, deliberate thud. She didn't pour him a cup yet. Instead, she turned around, grabbed a gray plastic bus tub from under the sink, and yanked open the lower cabinet, pulling out a battered, dented metal first-aid box bearing a faded red cross stamped across the lid.
"Get in the back booth," Dora ordered, pointing a soapy finger toward Booth Four—a secluded red vinyl booth tucked safely away from the direct line of sight of the front windows. "And take that jacket off before you ruin my floor completely."
Leonardo didn't argue. With Dante hovering anxiously nearby, Leonardo slid into the red vinyl booth, wincing heavily as the movement pulled against his left shoulder. Dante stepped in to help, carefully tearing away the remaining fabric of the expensive dark wool jacket and slicing open the blood-soaked white sleeve with a small pocket knife to expose the ragged, deep knife wound slicing across Leonardo's upper bicep.
The wound was ugly—roughly four inches long, jagged at the edges, oozing dark blood that had soaked deep into the muscle tissue.
Dora walked over, carrying the metal first-aid box, a stack of clean white bar towels, a roll of sterile gauze, and a heavy-duty roll of silver duct tape she kept behind the register for emergency repairs on the diner equipment.
She slammed the metal box onto the sticky table, popped the latches, and pulled out a bottle of cheap, generic hydrogen peroxide. Without a word of warning, she unscrewed the cap and splashed a generous amount directly into the open gash.
Leonardo hissed sharply through his teeth, his good hand gripping the edge of the vinyl table so hard the synthetic leather groaned in protest. A violent shudder ran through his broad shoulders, but he didn't make a sound.
"You need stitches," Dora said clinically, tearing open a packet of antiseptic wipes and aggressively cleaning the torn skin around the laceration. "Real ones. At a hospital. Not a diner in the middle of nowhere."
"Hospital isn't an option," Leonardo muttered through clenched teeth, sweat beading along his forehead.
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"Yeah, well, bleeding out on my vinyl isn't an option either," Dora retorted.
Working with the practiced speed of someone accustomed to patching up drunken cooks and clumsy dishwashers, she pressed a thick pad of sterile gauze directly over the wound. Then, she grabbed the bar towels, wrapping them tightly around his bicep to stem the flow of blood. Finally, she reached for the roll of silver duct tape.
