Altman and Kaylene entered the medical wing of their house. It was in fact a set of bedrooms, but it was the only place suited for the care of the injured and sick in the small place, so they’d lent the space to the medics they’d brought in.
“Medic Cranford. How’s Claver doing?” Kaylene’s voice was concerned, but betrayed no anxiousness.
The stern, matronly figure looked up from her notes, grey eyes assuringly alert. “He’s in rough shape, but he’ll live. That arm, though … I’ve got the bones set, but that was a right nasty piece of work. Muscles are all torn up. If I can keep infection at bay, he’ll keep the arm. Whether it’ll work right again after, well it’s just too early to say.”
“Can we see him?” Altman’s voice was a bit gruff; he couldn’t help feeling a guilty pang. It’d been many hours since the accident and his only thoughts of it so far had been of how it impacted him and his plans. When had he become so cold?
“Only for a few moments. I ‘ave him on the poppiate. He’ll be out till afternoon tomorrow, if not later. I’ll let ‘im know you came by though; I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”
They stopped by Claver’s bedside. He was pale, but his chest rose and fell evenly and deeply. They sat a few minutes. As they left the wing, Altman cast his wife a significant glance. “I hope our luck turns soon.”
She smiled in return and put a hand on his arm. “Apparently, husband, anything can happen.”