I opted not to use the bite picture

"You're Thomm," says the woman when I enter. I am unsure what description she has been given or if we have met. It is likely the latter, having attended a few of Amber's work excursions. "She's in one of the examining rooms."

I affirm that I am Thomm but do not correct the pronoun. I do not know how out Amber is at work about being nonbinary.

The woman says, "If you ask at the desk, they'll give you a pass."

"How" -- I sigh, finding no better way to phrase the question -- "what did it do to them?"

"There was a lot of blood," she says. "Once we cleaned it up a little... I don't think it is too bad."

This seems less like comfort than fact, so I try to brush away the worst of my worry.

A nurse leads me to a room down a few hallways, a labyrinth of cream curtains, and then there is Amber on a bed, the white towel held to their face turning a steady red.

It does not seem likely that gathering them in my arms will do something to lessen their pain.

Quickly and without any real difficulty, despite the weeping blood from their bottom lip, Amber explains that a dog ("medium-sized; tabletop sized") came into the hospital after being hit by a car. First, Amber blames having adjusted its leg, and then they blame their lack of height for not being out of reach of the bite. A few more inches, and this might have been avoided.

I cannot see the damage clearly, as they must keep covering her lip to staunch the flow of blood. It is separated, that much is clear, but it is difficult for me to judge the extent.

Beneath their jaw are two comically perfect puncture wounds from the dog's lower canines as though an inverted vampire bit them. These are the lesser injuries. They will bruise, but I do not know if they will be more than a memory in a few weeks.

Beyond the curtain beside us is an Irish woman lilting sweet assurances to the nurses about her older aunt. Her voice is small and unsteady but nevertheless charmed by her niece's boistrousness. We listen to this like a comedy routine, distracted from our trauma, wishing we had our own Irish woman to assure us she would dote on Amber.

I do not know grace or gratitude that this attack wasn't worse. Amber forgives the dog this marked trespass but seems to consider this the price of doing business in this field. If you work with sick and injured animals, you expect bites.

I don't. There are holds and tools. Most bites that might happen don't, though conspicuous bruises are not a rarity on Amber's body from handling dogs who outweigh them. I hate to see these, the tenderness of limbs I caress, the bruised ribs. Amber has been little bothered by the deep purple blooming from their hip.

I used to frequent the emergency room with Emily, a martial artist who recreationally took kicks to the face. Then, I had difficulty processing the emotions of this repeated trauma to a loved one, particularly a harm she had chosen. I would be resentful and angry, driving to another emergency room because her jaw no longer matched up or her nose was shattered.

I am not this way with Amber—whose recreation these days tends to be reading—but I am not sure how to be here for Amber except literally. I sit on the edge of a chair, not wanting to interfere with their possessions and speak to them normally.

A nurse asks Amber if they want him to stitch them up as best he can or have me drive two hours to a hospital that can do plastic surgery. I tell Amber I don't mind doing it as long as they allow me to swing by Wendy's and buy myself dinner. Amber doesn't want to deal with the drive and tells the nurse it will likely be okay for him to do the work. It is their face and their choice.

A few times an hour, a nurse will look at their lip and leave again. One comes in and asks Amber if they live alone. I raise my hand. The woman then asks if things are safe at home. She looks awkwardly over at me as my hand recedes. Amber assures the woman they are safe.

Amber is so reserved that one might believe they are unbothered. I know them almost as well as I know myself and cannot recall having seen their hands shake like this as they apply the towel to their face to sop up more welling blood.

I am powerless beyond holding their hand, which cannot begin to be enough.

It will be a while before we kiss again, something we do in pecks a dozen times daily. I will have to rewire myself to stop our lips from touching. It is not the priority here, but it is something I can focus on, some way in which I have control.

Would I sob in their place? I would dissociate until it was done, making jokes and presenting a calm and reasonable face to get stitched up and home. The shock of it would take longer. I might find the hour when these cracks spiderwebbed to breaking.

One nurse puts on a white numbing gel. Nearly an hour elapses before another comes in and is irritated that no one put on the numbing gel before realizing he had just taken too long to sew Amber up.

The actual stitching takes minutes. Amber asks if they can take the stitches out themselves, as they have suture scissors and ample experience doing this with pets. The nurses concede Amber doesn't have to return to the hospital unless they get an infection, at which point they cannot hesitate. We can't have Amber's lip fall off.

I drive them home, the two stitches like spider legs on their swollen lip. Amber wanders the apartment as usual, fielding their mother's nightly call and acting as though this were no big deal.

last watched: Resident Alien
reading: This Is How You Lose the Time War