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she smiles at me. “This will help your husband. You may have him lie on the table.” She presses a wet rag into my hand. “My daughter has experienced a trying day, and I’m disturbed too. I’ll see to my family and you see to yours.” I can tell she ties to smile and just can’t.
    “My husband?” My voice ratchets up five decibels, but I catch Michael’s gaze. He shakes his head subtly. Two young people traveling together. I guess it’s best if they assume we’re married. I run my tongue against the back of my teeth. “And what do I do with this?”
    Before I can finish my question, Mary’s mom backs out of the room. I turn to Michael.
    “Don’t mind her. She’s being proper. They won’t come in here again.” He’s trying to struggle out of his shirt without yowling. I cross the room and help ease the fabric from around his wound as we slip it over his head. Evidently they have a gym in this Keleusma place, because Michael’s more ripped than I would have guessed. I try not to get caught gawking as I help him onto the table. He lies, stomach down.
    I freeze. “I don’t know if I can do this. Help you.”
    “You can.” His voice is so soft. How can he do that? Use his strength to sooth me when he must be in an incredible amount of pain?
    I swallow. Hard. “Okay. Tell me what to do.” My hands shake.
     “Make sure there aren’t any pieces of my shirt stuck in the burn. Then use this.” He taps the jar of goo.
    I pick it up and unscrew the lid. “Is this stuff safe to use?”
    “Honey? Sure.”
    I dab at his back with the damp cloth, biting my tongue and blinking my eyes to keep back the tears that are burning to drop. Michael grips the edge of the table. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s holding hard enough to leave marks. I should have found a stick for him to bite before starting. That always seems to work in old movies.
    The muscle in his jaw pops. “Now, honey.”
    “You don’t have to keep calling me that.” I pour a glob of the goo onto his back.
    “Not you. In the jar. It’s honey. Only thing to help with burns,” he says between pained gasps.
    I’m glad he can’t see my face. My cheeks flame with embarrassment. Of course he wasn’t calling me honey.
    There’s a light tap on the door, and Mary’s mother walks into the kitchen, averting her eyes from Michael’s back. She lays a wad of fabric on the counter. “These are clean. You may use them as bandages.” She hesitates at the door. “I have this for you as well.” She holds up a bundle of clothes. “I noticed that something happened to your clothing during the blast.”
    I look down at myself. Besides some soot and scrapes, I’m fine.
    Oh, right. Modesty in the twentieth century. My shorts are acceptable by my standards, but to her, I probably look like I’m in my underwear.
    “Yes, um, thanks.” I slip down into a seat again, hiding myself behind Michael.
    Mary’s mother sets the clothing beside the fabric scraps on the counter. “Thank you for saving my daughter. We can never repay you, but please let us try. You’re welcome to stay here until your husband has mended. We don’t have much. No spare rooms or beds to offer, but I’ll bring some quilts. Will it suit to leave him on the table?”
    I nod and she disappears.
    When I look back at Michael, he’s studying my face. I tuck my bangs back behind my ear. “Do you need something else? Are you in a lot of pain?”
    A slight smile tugs on his lips. “I told you you’d scandalize them.”
    I cross my arms and glare at him.
    He shuts his eyes again and his shoulders rise with a long breath. “Actually, there is something you could do.”
    “What?”
    “When you ran your fingers through my hair—that felt nice. Distracting.”
    I lean forward and slip my hand into his mocha hair, smoothing it back into place. Its slightly damp, but soft.
    After a while, Michael’s breathing is deep and even. Hopefully he’s fallen asleep. I relish the silence for a