He turned on the lamp, pulled up a footstool, and sat in front of her. Reluctantly, it seemed, he held out his injured hand. “Ow!” Abby commiserated. That bird had taken a chunk out of Quinn’s pointer finger, just below the middle knuckle. “You need stitches.” “I’ve fixed worse cuts than this with duct tape.” He dug through the kit and handed over a tube of Neosporin. “Just get on with it.” “How did he get you so bad?” As gently as she could, she smeared the antibiotic cream over the open gash. “Made the mistake of leaning my hand on the aviary wire when I poured the food into his bowl.” He handed over a fresh Band-Aid. “I won’t do that again.” “I’m sorry. I hate that you’re having to do all this for me.” She wrapped the Band-Aid around his finger and smoothed down the adhesive edges. “My fault, remember?” He replaced the bandages and Neosporin and snapped the lid shut. “Can you please stop apologizing?” “I’m sorry.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “How does your foot feel?” The throbbing pain from earlier this morning now burned with the heat of a thousand suns….