The miner gripped the cot with both fists while Vella eased the bandage away from his shoulder.
Hajin stopped beside the door as the man's daughter pressed herself against the wall, eyes locked on Vella's opening scissors. A rag doll dangled from one small fist while she searched her father's face for the smile he kept forcing.
The miner tried smiling toward her while fever rattled through his clenched and aching jaw.
"Company chirurgeon stitched it three days back," he rasped, clawing at the cot's edge, "two silver for the twine, and by midnight the damn arm wouldn't lift."
'Two silver to sew a man shut over his own rot, what a fucking bargain.'
Vella set the scissors on her tray and pressed her fingertips carefully around the angry wound.
