“It just isn’t any good for that stuff, that’s all. Ya need iodine.”
He looked at Ginnie. “It stings a lot, though, doesn’t it?” he asked. “Doesn’t it sting a helluva lot?”
“It stings,” Ginnie said, “but it won’t kill you or anything.”
Apparently without resenting Ginnie’s tone, Selena’s brother turned back to his finger. “I don’t like it when it stings,” he said.
“Nobody does.”
He nodded in agreement. “Yeah,” he said.
Ginnie watched him for a minute. “Stop touching it,” she said suddenly.
As though responding to an electric shock, Selena’s brother pulled back his uninjured hand. He sat up a trifle straighter—or rather, slumped a trifle less. He looked at some object on the other side of the room. An almost dreamy expression came over his disorderly features. He inserted the nail of his uninjured index finger into the crevice between two front teeth and, removing a food particle, turned to Ginnie. “Jeat jet?” he asked.
“What?”
“Jeat lunch yet?”