Finally, he sucked in his own nerves and the only show Hawkeye made of it was to lower the coated cloth stips to touch the wound, the leg. He expected a hiss or a recoil and it might have been to drown the possibility out that he went on, "Fine stage, sure, but don't expect me to advertise any tickets. What I meant was that you might have done a little better by laying low- you know, not... screaming, like you did. Just to try and knife somebody. I mean, you're lucky you got me instead, but." But he remembered still having the knife at his throat, and the doctor shook his head. Kids these days. And if he thought about that, he'd derail, and so he continues to tend to the wound, to dig around the jar of ointment when he needed, to wrap and tighten a bandage when he wanted.

A second of silence ticked by and it seemed like too much silence for Hawkeye to bear, and so he sighs out a breath- guilt ridden and he confesses, "It was a bad joke. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did about the saw- your leg's going to be fine. Your sponsor- look, the medicine here is really something else. You'll be fine, but I'm serious about wanting you to stay off of it. If you can." If you're a trooper, he'd add, but this boy was a stubborn son of a gun and he doubted he needed to.