Or maybe it means they’re in too deep already, that they’ve gotten through the skin into the blood.
Just look at it one more time. Does it look like the swelling is getting better?
It’s only been eight minutes too soon to tell. Stop. It was 3:15.
“Holmesy,” she said. “We need to go. I can drive.”
I shook my head again, put the car into reverse, and this time succeeded in getting moving.
“I wish I understood it,” she told me as I drove. “Like, does it help to be reassuring or is it better to worry with you?
Is there anything that makes it better?” “It’s infected,” I whispered.
“And I did it to myself. Like I always do. Opened the callus up and now it’s infected.”
I was that fish, infected with a parasite, swimming close to the surface, trying to get myself eaten.
When we finally got to the bank, I stood in the back while Daisy introduced herself to a teller,
and then we were escorted to a glassed-off private office in the back,
where a thin woman in a black suit placed our cash into a machine that shuffled through the bills, counting them.
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