Morning crept into the guest room as Hajin pushed off the wall for his twentieth press, weight over his feet. The salve and a night of rest made breathing easier, though his ribs still bit whenever his shoulders got careless.
"Twenty," he wheezed, peeling both palms off the plaster, "twenty whole presses, somebody alert the bards."
'Two hundred on the floor can wait, I need that examination more than I need a number to brag about.'
He lowered his hands right there, before the ache could become a fresh excuse to summon the physician again.
"Yeah, yeah, I hear you, ribs, nobody is arguing, so quit stabbing me about it, you traitorous bastards."
He checked the fresh wraps, then pulled on the trousers and tunic someone quietly laid out beside the bed overnight. The medicine stayed on the table with its written instructions, the scheduled dose waiting within easy reach of his chair.
