So soon into the conversation, it seemed Adam had exhausted all their initial possibilities. Truly he was at a loss, as troubled by that simple fact - 'failing', rather, he silently corrected - as by the fact that he had no way of quieting his neighbor's concerns. Adam assumed he had his reasons, unspoken as they might be, for not immediately seeking a physician's assistance, but at this juncture it seemed there was no other option to suggest.
"I'd find a PA or a prompt care you can go to," he said, ruefully shaking his head. "Don't bother with the ER. This won't technically be considered an emergency, so they'd charge you both arms and a leg." He let go the man's hand, the soft pads of his fingers rubbing together, feeling the radiant heat lingering upon his own flesh. "I have some aloe with lidocaine." He turned away, padding down the short corridor toward the kitchen beyond. "It'll help with the pain, at least temporarily," he called. A rattling of bottles and cans sounded the refrigerator door opening; it closed with a muffled thump. "The good thing is you can use as much as you like," he said, shuffling back into the living room. A short, squat tube of blue ointment rested in his pale hand. He held it out, its chill plastic casing brushing Joaquin's hand. "You can have it. I wish I could do more for you."
That done, Adam took a slight step back, a soft smile quirking upward the corner of his mouth. "Don't feel like I'm rushing you out," he said. "You're welcome to sit down, relax a bit. You know, I don't think I ever got your name."