This was different. The sting of the hand sanitizer was gone now,
which meant the bacteria were back to breeding, spreading through my finger into the bloodstream.
Why did I ever crack open the callus anyway? Why couldn’t I just leave it alone?
Why did I have to give myself a constant, gaping open wound on, of all places, my finger?
The hands are the dirtiest parts of the body. Why couldn’t I pinch my earlobe or my belly or my ankle?
I’d probably killed myself with sepsis because of some stupid childhood ritual that didn’t even prove what I wanted it to prove,
because what I wanted to know was unknowable, because there was no way to be sure about anything.
It’ll feel better if you reapply the hand sanitizer. Just a couple more times.
It was 3:12. We had to get to the bank. I took off the Band-Aid, applied hand sanitizer, reapplied a Band-Aid.
It was 3:13. Daisy said, “Do you want me to drive?” I shook my head. Started Harold up. Put him in reverse.
Then back in park. Took off the Band-Aid, applied more hand sanitizer.
It stung less this time. Maybe that means they’re mostly dead.
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