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“Do you do that at home?” she says.

“Do what?”

“Take your gun to the door.”

“Sometimes.”

“That's a hell of a way to live.”

“I don't always have to do it at home. We have security.”

Her brow knits. “Don't you have security here?”

“I don't trust them. I’m not sure if you've realized this yet, but I trust almost no one.”

“Why?” she asks, and it feels like a genuine question.

“When I was in prison, my cousin betrayed my family. What would your family do if someone betrayed them?”

“It wouldn't be pretty,” she says.

“Same. And I had a friend in prison who turned on me.”

“Thirty pieces of silver,” she says, shaking her head. “Like Judas.”

“Are you comparing me to Jesus, then?”

She snorts.

I'm smiling at her. It feels unfamiliar, but welcome.

“Right. Let's take a look at that foot. Are you in a lot of pain? Does anything else hurt—headache, blurred vision, anything like that?”

She shakes her head.

I mutter something under my breath. Didn't realize I'd said it out loud until she looks at me.

“The man who cut your goddamn foot.”

She swallows and looks away. She's having a rough day.

I do a decent job of laying out the pharmacy bag—little packets of antibacterial ointment, bandages, alcohol wipes, and ibuprofen.

“Well,” she says quietly. “Maybe we can get me some more clothes. I don't know exactly how much longer you're going to keep me, but these either need a wash or you need to get me something else entirely.”

“I thought you had plenty of clothes?”

“Well,” she says, clearing her throat. “They don't really fit me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything's too big on me.” She shakes her head and looks away. “When I was younger, all my dad ever did was tell me to lose weight.” She laughs, but there's no humor in it. “I wasn't even chubby or anything. He just liked to criticize. Said I was going to get fat like my mother.” She rolls her eyes. “I bet he would think I'm beautiful now.”

“He'd be right,” I say. She looks at me. I look at her foot. “Your father's an idiot,” I say to the bandage. “Nothing wrong with your weight when you came in.” I look down at her foot.

“I can clean it myself,” she says.

“No. It's the least I can do. It’s going to sting.”