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“Sit still.”
Throughout his fourteen years of life, no words have drawn as much ire and disgust from Lea as these two. He isn’t in much of a position to complain, perched on the edge of Isa’s couch—his house had been closer—with first aid supplies scattered around him like the world’s most pathetic confetti. Still, Lea makes his displeasure known by scowling and squirming as much as possible.
Isa’s return stare is unimpressed. “I’m trying to help,” he says, pointedly dragging a damp washcloth beneath Lea’s nose to mop up some of the blood accumulating there. “You’ll make it worse if you keep moving.”