Qinghe set Yan’s hand on the dispensary table before she would discuss the clinic’s cases. Salt had cracked his skin, and the rope burn across his palm looked worse in the daylight than it had on the ship.
“You said it was only a scrape,” she said.
“It was.”
“It is now an open cut.”
She poured warm water over the palm and cleaned the grit out of the wound. Yan watched the water turn pink. He had been in worse danger, but this ordinary sting was enough to make his fingers flex.
“Being able to survive a dangerous art doesn’t make a splinter clean itself out,” Qinghe said.
“I’ll remember.”
“You’ll wash your hands before you carry another crate.”
