33 The Return of Bowie Bravo by Christine Rimmer

at it.
    Johnny waved his bloody fist triumphantly. “Bowie told me not to touch the knife, but I touched the knife.” Now he looked at Brett with serious eyes. “Uncle Brett, it was very sharp.”
    Brett sent a glance at Bowie and Bowie saw the glint of humor in his brother’s eyes. What was so funny? Not a thing, the way Bowie saw it. The kid could have bled to death. And Bowie knew whose fault that would have been.
    “Let’s have a look.” Brett snapped on exam gloves. “Can you take off that jacket and get up on the bench by yourself?”
    Johnny got the jacket off without much trouble. “Here, Bowie.”
    Bowie stepped up to take the jacket. There was blood on the sleeve. And also on the sleeve and down the front of his airplane pajamas. Bowie felt sick at the sight. All that blood. And now the poor kid would need his hand sewn up. Why? Because his long-lost, would-be dad didn’t have sense enough to keep a sharp knife out of his reach.
    At least Johnny was taking it all in stride. He proudly got on the stool and clambered onto the examining bench. “Will I have to have a shot? Bobby Winkle had a shot that time he had those stitches in his knee. Remember that, Uncle Brett?”
    “Yes, I do.” Brett swung a steel tray on a stand in front of Johnny. “Okay, put your hand here.”
    “Below my heart? ”
    “I think we’re safe to try that now. The bleeding seems to have slowed a little.” Johnny held out his hand and Brett unwrapped the bloody strip of cloth. “Okay, now, this might sting.” He went to work cleaning the gash.
    Johnny was a trouper. He shut his eyes tight and tipped his head back. And said “ow” only twice. After the cleaning, it was time for that shot Johnny had asked about.
    “This will numb the area.” Brett delivered the injection smoothly, with little fanfare.
    Bowie couldn’t bear to watch. He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked away and hated himself some more. Johnny whimpered when the needle went in but quickly regained his composure.
    And his excitement. He watched, fascinated, as Brett stitched him up. “Wow, nine stitches. That’s a lot, huh, Uncle Brett?”
    Brett bandaged him up. “Yes, it is. And you shouldn’t have touched that knife.”
    “I know. I was bad.” The big brown eyes turned Bowie’s way. “I’m sorry, Bowie.” Bowie gave him a nod.
    Brett said, “But as far as getting the stitches goes, you did very, very well.”
    Johnny’s brown eyes shone. “I didn’t cry once, did I?”
    “Nope, not once.”
    “Do I get a tattoo?”
    Brett snapped off his gloves, dropped them in the trash and grabbed a clear glass bowl from a shelf by the sink. “You get two.”
    Johnny proudly fished out two temporary tattoos. One of a skull and crossbones, the other of a yellow shield with SuperKid printed in red across it. “Thank you,” he said.
    Brett gave him a wink and turned to Bowie, who stood near the door again, wrapped up in his own personal hell, reliving that moment when Johnny screamed. “Don’t disturb the bandage for forty-eight hours,” Brett said. “Don’t let him get it wet. After that, you can apply fresh antibiotic cream and a clean bandage. Children’s acetaminophen or ibuprofen if he has any pain. He should come back in a week. If the area around the stitches gets red or swollen, give us a call.”
    Bowie gaped at his brother, the doctor. “Uh, gotcha,” he said, thinking about those words red or swollen. What if the hand got infected? Bowie would never forgive himself.
    Brett grinned and handed him a small folded pamphlet. “Instructions for care of the injury. Just in case you forget.”
    “Great.”
    “Nine stitches,” Johnny crowed. “Bobby Winkle only got eight. Isn’t that right, Uncle Brett?”
    “That’s right.” Brett took him under the arms and swung him down from the examining bench. “Be careful with that hand, now.”
    “I will. I promise.”
    Glory was standing at the bay window in the family room, waiting