That hand withdraws, then, pulling away from Benedict’s shoulder to reassemble the gap between them. There is no immediate comfort in medicine, only the bitterness of it, or the sting of a needle, yet in the aftermath....

“I shall fetch you something to eat.”

It’ll offer the man time to breathe. To acclimate himself in the warmth of a kindled fire, his own security in that given space a mild easement.

To brace himself, as he must learn to.