You’d recently been transferred from the main branch of Hearts Hospital to the Emergency Room.

Now, you’d seen all kinds of repeat cases in your career. But somehow, Eustass Kid had managed to outnumber even clumsy children with sprained ankles.

He showed up at least twice a week; sometimes more. Cuts, bruises, fractured knuckles, the occasional dislocated shoulder. Apparently, a lot of people in this city had a death wish, maybe a smart mouth. Or Kid just can’t go more than 24 hours without throwing a punch.

He wouldn’t let anyone else near him, either. If someone else so much as reached for a pair of gloves, he’d bark them out of the room. You were the only one he’d tolerate.

So when he walked in again around 1 a.m, trailing blood, you weren’t surprised.

He slid onto one of the ER beds and leaned back, spreading his hand as he held his knuckles out toward you; split open, red and still dripping.

“Fix this shit, doc,” he growled.