[ Vasiliy holds out the washcloth, dampened with a little warm water from the bathroom sink—for him to wipe the bloody vomit from his mouth with, an intention which goes unsaid. He gets the sense the man is feeling rather sheepish about it, though it's hardly any great stretch of intuition; few grown men ever react well to such a complete loss of control, especially in front of others. His rank, his status, the fact that he's a robust, healthy man used to being in a position of control—all of those things undoubtedly only exacerbate the burn of embarrassment for him. ]

Probably a few hours. I will tell the nurses you had a reaction to it so they don't use the same one again.

[ A beat. He's stepping a little bit out of his scope of practice, saying such a thing, but he feels compelled to grasp for some reassurance wherever he can find it: ]

It's dark. That's a good thing. If you were still bleeding it would be bright red from oxygenation.