The sharp sting tore through my leg as I groaned and tried to pull away. The so-called "doctor" George had assigned to patch me up wasn't exactly gentle. His grip was firm, pinning my leg in place, and I could feel every jab of his needle as he worked.
"Hold still," he barked, not even glancing up. He was an older guy, probably in his late fifties, with a salt-and-pepper beard and a scowl that screamed "I'm not in the mood for your whining."
"It hurts," I snapped, biting down on my lip to stop another groan from escaping.
"It's supposed to hurt," he retorted, his hands never pausing. "You're lucky you still have a leg."
That got my attention. "What do you mean?"
He sighed like I was the dumbest person alive, setting down the bloodied needle and reaching for a roll of bandages. "I mean if you had gone another day without proper treatment, you would have been looking at amputation. Infection's no joke, sweetheart."
