"Less right at this minute than at any other time!" spoke Barry truthfully. "I'm out of my head entirely!" He reached for the flowers.
"Please don't joke that way. It's really serious. When I was across—army nursing—I saw a lot of just such cases as yours. Shell shock, you know. One has to be awfully careful with it."
"I know. But I'm getting the best of care. I—ouch!" His interest had exceeded his caution. The unbandaged hand had waved the flowers for emphasis and absently gripped the stems. The wild roses fluttered to the ground. "Gosh!" came dolefully, "I'm all full of thorns. Guess I'll have to pick 'em out with my teeth."
"Oh!" Then she picked up the roses and laid them gingerly aside. "You can't use your other hand, can you?"
"No. Arm's broken."
"Then—" she looked back toward Lost Wing, hunched on a stump, and Barry's heart sank. She debated a moment, at last to shake her head. "No—he'd want to dig them out with a knife. If you don't mind." She moved toward Houston and Barry thrust forth his hand.
"If you don't mind," he countered and she sat beside him. A moment later:
"I must look like a fortune teller."
"See anything in my palm besides thorns?"
"Yes. A little dirt. Ba'tiste evidently isn't a very good nurse."