Samuel Johnson's eyelashes drooped lightly as he watched the nurse apply medicine to him with great care. Yet his mind wandered, thinking about how little blood he was losing compared to Amanda Smith's wrist. The pain he was experiencing now was nothing compared to the agony of her cutting into her own wrist with a sharpened toothbrush.
The pain he could feel was so limited. There was no such thing as truly sharing someone's physical pain in this world; when the needle pierced that person's body, he couldn't feel any of her pain for her.
The nurse bandaged him meticulously, with several thick layers of white gauze wrapped around Samuel's palm, but still, threads of blood kept seeping through.
Mrs. Johnson was terribly distressed—despite the hemostatic medicine, the blood wouldn't stop. Just how deep was the wound?
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Time ticked by, from noon until the afternoon.
