John took command of the situation without any hesitation, crossing my apartment in three long strides and crouching down to take me gently by the elbow. "C'mon, kid. We'll get you to a doctor."

The phrase was enough to tug my brain out of the dull contemplation of my injury. I did a few rapid (or at least comparatively rapid) mental gymnastics and then shook my head. "No. No doctor."

John had been preparing to help me to my feet; now he paused in the motion and narrowed his eyes at me. "How's that again?"

I intended to give him an eloquent summary of the state my finances were in at present, and to point out that a doctor's bill would certainly be enough to land me deeply and urgently in Financial Troubles, capital F.T.

What actually came out was "No doctor. No money," and I reflected dismally that I wasn't much of a writer if an injury was enough to reduce my vocabulary to Tarzan-like levels.

John made what could only be described as a growling noise in his throat and shook his head. "Nuts to that, pal. C'mon."

I tried – weakly and unsuccessfully – to remove my elbow from his grip. "No doctor."

He made the growling noise again, muttered something that sounded like B.A. under his breath, and settled back on his heels for a second – without letting go of my elbow.

After a few thoughtful puffs on his cigar he sighed and shook his head. "All right, kid, here's the deal. I'll take a look at the arm for ya. If – if – I can fix it up myself, I will." He gave me a grave look, a commanding one that brokered no opposition. "If I don't like the look of it, you're going to a doctor. No arguments."

I opened my mouth to give him my brilliant two-word argument again, found myself on the receiving end of a steel-blue glare that could've peeled paint, and snapped my mouth shut. I nodded once, meekly, and John helped me gingerly to my feet.

My collapse had been more from shock than blood loss, and I managed to move steadily and (mostly) under my own power. He steered me out of my apartment and onto the balcony, gesturing me into the castoff chair. Then he peeled back my makeshift bandage and squinted appraisingly at the injury for a long moment. I risked a glance, noted that the bleeding seemed to have slowed down – then grew suddenly nauseated at the sight of blood and quickly turned my face away.

Finally he made a gruff noise and nodded. "It's not bad. Ugly, but not bad. You missed everything important."

I chuckled weakly. "Lucky me."

John snorted and glanced at my face. "Sure you won't wise up and go to a doctor?"

I shook my head. "No – "

"No doctor. Yeah, I caught that." John sighed, muttered something about B.A. again, and straightened up. "All right, kid. I'll get my stuff."

John left the balcony and ducked into his apartment, and I carefully directed my gaze at everything except my injured arm. The extraordinarily faint voice of my common sense was trying to tell me that letting my B-movie actor next-door neighbor treat me wasn't actually that smart, and in the long run might prove more problematic than blowing my savings on a doctor and ending up homeless would've been.

But hey – if I ever listened to common sense, I'd still be in Iowa.

John came back bearing a toolbox in one hand and one of his kitchen chairs in the other. He set the chair down facing me and settled into it, balancing the toolbox on his lap.

I grinned weakly. "What're you going to do, saw it off?"

He chuckled. "Only if you don't cooperate." He opened the box, turning his attention to the contents.

I craned my neck to look into the open toolbox, surprised to see that it was filled with medical supplies. Wrapped syringes, bandages, a blood-pressure cuff, sutures; things that would've seemed more at home in a doctor's office than an actor's third-floor walkup.

I shot John a quizzical look, which he ignored. Instead, he withdrew one of the syringes and a small, clear bottle marked novocaine. He watched me for a moment after injecting my arm – presumably to see if I was going to faint and topple off the balcony – then set aside the syringe and withdrew rubbing alcohol and a pair of needlenose pliers from the toolbox. As the pain gradually dissolved into numbness, John doused the pliers, his hands, and finally my arm with liberal helpings of alcohol. Then he glanced up at me.

"Take my advice, Chris – it may not hurt, but don't watch."

"Good advice." I turned my face towards the wall.

He was right; it didn't hurt, although I could still vaguely feel the sensation of his fingers gripping my forearm while he withdrew the glass shard and set it aside. As he pulled sutures and the other tools to stitch my arm out of the toolbox, I turned my gaze from the wall to his face.

"Uh . . ." I cleared my throat. "If it's not too nosy . . . where'd you learn how t'do this?"

He glanced up at me sharply for a moment, with an unreadable look; then he dropped his eyes back to my arm. "Vietnam."

It raised as many questions as it answered, really; but I just nodded and fell silent as he finished stitching and bandaging the gash in my arm. He shrugged as he repacked his toolbox.

"Can't do anything about it scarring." He noted, standing.

I shrugged and gave him a crooked grin. "It'll make me look tough."

John snorted in amusement and turned to go back to his apartment.

"John."

He glanced back over his shoulder, eyebrow raised.

"Uh . . ." I held up my bandaged arm. "Thanks."

A slow grin broke out over his face. "What're friends for, kid?"

And he left the balcony.

TBC