Luis could hold the pencil or the paper. He could not hold both.
Mara watched him discover this for the third time that morning. The paper slid when he tried to draw a line, leaving a crooked mark through the word dressings. He put the pencil down with such care that she pretended to study the shelf.
“I can get a clipboard.”
“We’ve got one.”
It lay beside his elbow. The spring was stiff, and opening it required the hand he had wrapped against his chest.
Mara picked it up, opened the clip, and slid the page under it. He said nothing. She put it back without offering to finish the count.
The first morning after their return had brought a thin, cold sunlight. It showed every thread caught in the infirmary’s clean sheets. Clean was a judgment they made differently now. A stain that survived washing did not necessarily make a sheet dirty. A white piece of cloth was not necessarily safe to put into a wound.
Luis counted the sealed packets himself.
