We were in a hunger standoff that only I was privy to: Which one of us would cry "Uncle!" and crawl emaciated, cheeks sunken, eyes blackened, stomach puffed with bloat into the kitchen and make us dinner. I won. I could hear him cutting up root vegetables and tossing them into a roasting pan while I sprawled on the couch reading, well past hungry and back to not hungry anymore.
"That doesn't sound good," I thought, listening to him chop. "He's going to cut himself."
He had moved on to the turnips and he really had a rhythm going.
"Nope, really. Not good," I thought. "Should I warn him?"
I went into the kitchen and blood was streaming from the tip of the pinkie finger on his left hand. He was running it under water and had already taken to referring to this particular body part as a "flap."
Blood can either make me very aware of the fragility of my legs, or it can spur me to action. I went with the latter, and didn't at all almost barf when he showed me something that looked like a finger with a pasty white shriveled toilet lid.
We discussed stitches, Neosprin, Band Aids and regeneration, and he bandaged himself up and wondered how this would affect his livelihood.
Then I (very carefully) finished making dinner. So I guess he won.
Today he Googled "Should I get stitches?" and learned that he should a) if the wound wouldn't stop bleeding; b) if finger fat was visible. And then I almost fainted.