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Sure, I have a first aid kit in the kitchen, and the bathroom's upstairs, first door on the right. I'll take care of your cut, Lyle."

Jillian runs up the steps, and you lead Lyle to the kitchen. He takes your arm and holds on tight, and as you pass the couch, he lays his cane down.

"Again, let me just say that I appreciate your kindness. Everyone seems to have lost their common decency in this outbreak mess." Lyle pats your hand.

You sit him on a kitchen chair and help slip off his sneaker. He rolls up the left leg of his pants, and sure enough, there's an inch-long gash across his ankle. You open the first aid kit, remove the anti-bacterial spray, and clean the gash.

"Is it deep?" he asks, turning his leg.

"Don't move, please," you say as you apply some wound-healing ointment. "Not too deep. Was it a knife?" You inspect the wound carefully—it looks clean and smooth, as if care was taken to make the cut.

"I caught my leg against the bumper of a car. Jillian said it was jagged and bent. Just hope it doesn't get infected."

"You should be fine. I cleaned it real well," you say and apply the gauze.

"Can you believe what's going on out there?" Lyle asks. "Infected running around, military moving in to keep the peace. Do you have any way to protect yourself?"