During the treatment, the doctor prepared to clean Francisco's wounds using a sponge and a basin of water. The sponge looked as though it had been sitting in the library since the day the building was first constructed. Francisco recoiled at the sight.
"Sorry, doctor," he said calmly, "but I wouldn't dare let something that dirty touch an open wound. Do you have anything cleaner? And perhaps some alcohol?"
The doctor gave him a look that clearly said you are one of those and nodded, visibly irritated. Someone questioning his methods—his knowledge—was never well received.
Francisco ignored the expression. He knew there had to be a reason why the Pijao preferred treating wounds with clean cloth. Even if he didn't fully understand the science behind it, he knew enough to avoid pressing old blood and grime into fresh cuts.
