Vinnie didn't say a word. He walked over, reached out, and forcefully but gently pulled Bug’s left hand away, unwrapping the shredded, bloody paper towels. He looked at the deep, ragged gash, the exposed bone, and the rapid swelling.
Bug braced for the ridicule. He waited for Vinnie to call him soft.
Instead, Vinnie let out a low, slow whistle. He let go of Bug's wrist and leaned back against the workbench, pulling the unlit cigar from his mouth.
"Well, Bug," Vinnie said, his gravelly voice surprisingly calm. "You wanted to learn the trade. Congratulations. You just signed the contract."
"I can keep working," Bug insisted, his vision swimming slightly from the pain. "Just give me some electrical tape to wrap it."
"Shut up," Vinnie said, not unkindly. He grabbed a clean rag, poured a generous splash of mineral spirits onto it, and handed it to Bug. "Press that against it. It's gonna sting like a bastard, but it'll clean the grease out before the doc stitches you up."
Bug gasped as the solvent hit the open wound, the fire of it nearly bringing him to his knees.
"Look at me, kid," Vinnie commanded, stepping into his space. "There’s a difference between being tough and being stupid. Being tough means you take the hit, you learn from it, and you keep going. Being stupid means you let a wound rot out of pride and lose the hand. You can’t build a life if you destroy the tools you’re using to make it."
Vinnie tossed his cigar into a metal trash can and grabbed his truck keys from the pegboard.
"Come on," Vinnie growled, walking toward the garage doors. "My buddy runs the clinic down the block. We'll get you patched up. And while he's sewing you back together, you can think about a name for this place. Because every real mechanic leaves a little piece of himself on the floor."
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