Dexamethasone. Coumadin. Aspirin. The substances keeping Chuck alive thinned his skin to tissue. So when Maureen heard Honey's yelp at the bright sound of an ornament splintering, she whirled, snapping, “Careful, dammit.”
Blood sluiced from Chuck’s hand. “I didn’t—” he began in shocked tones.
Thirty years offers ample opportunity to strop one’s tongue. Infection. Inconvenience. Idiocy. Maureen berated him for each.
“But it was—”
“Are you stupid or just making a special effort? Clean it.”
Alone in the bathroom and examining the half-dozen new slashes on his arm, Chuck finally finished the sentence: “The dog, Maureen. The dog.”