“Yes. Do you want me to cut the shirt away?”
I nodded. “That’d be best. Then we can see what
we’re doing.”
She got a small pair of manicure scissors out of the
dresser and slit the shirt around the hook. I
unbuttoned it and slid it off, and turned my back to
the mirror to look over my shoulder. I was deeply
tanned from the waist up and wore no undershirt.
The streamer fly was a vivid slash of white and silver
tinsel against the sun-blackened hide, and as well as
I could tell, the barb was deeply embedded. I caught
a glimpse of my face in the mirror and for the first
time remembered I hadn’t shaved since yesterday,
and wondered what kind of thug I must look like to
her, big, with the flat, sun-darkened face rasping
with black stubble.
I motioned with a hand and passed her the
diagonal pliers. “Pinch the muscle and skin up with
your fingers and run it on through as if you were
baiting a hook,” I instructed.
“It’ll hurt,” she said quietly.
“Some,” I said.
River Girl — 23
