“Mm?” Raju frowns, troubled, down at Francis’ fingers. “I didn’t know that.”

It comes out sounding like a complaint. Raju doesn’t mind that, because a complaint is what it is. It’s Francis. He should know something like that. He should know how much Francis can feel when he touches his hand.

“I didn’t know frostbite did that.” He switches hands, the one with the rag holding Francis’ and the other drawing its short, neat fingernail down from the palm to the knuckle of Francis’ index finger and up it, very slowly. “Tell me when you stop feeling this. How much of it is numb here?”