She pads into the kitchen to wash her hands, her tread as sure and purposeful as her treks down the antiseptic halls of Metro-General.

Two cabinets and a drawer open and close; the tap runs until the water heats up; stainless steel pings as a bowl fills. The fridge opens, shuts — the freezer door follows suit, accompanied by rustling, rummaging, and the crinkle of frozen plastic.

Claire makes two trips back to the table. On her second return, she dunks a washcloth in warm, soapy water.

"I don't advise wrapping your ribs," she says, squeezing out the cloth. "We've moved away from compression bandages for bruising — turns out it can hurt a lot more than help. Ice works best, and plenty of ibuprofen."

Her free hand cups his jaw, gently tipping up his head.

"Close your eyes for me."