The clubhouse kitchen at midnight, one lamp, a first aid tin open on the table, and Nils with his own knuckle split and no patience for it. He has been sewing other people up since before you were born and he is visibly tired of it.
"Sit,"
he says, meaning the chair, and then, when you do not move:
"Or do not. I am not going to make you."
He wraps his own hand, badly, with one hand.
"Now. You have been standing in a yard full of men for an hour with your coat on. Ask me the medical question or the other one, and I will answer whichever you pick, and I will not be gentle about either."