Help the injured otter

"I can't stand here and watch you bleed to ****," you say. You step toward the counter and he raises his gun again to point it at you.

"Stay where you are," he says, but you can see his hand shaking as he struggles to hold the weapon steady.

"Just relax," you say. "I'm getting some towels." You bend down and open one of the drawers, reaching to the back and pulling out a handful of old tea towels. You hold them up, showing Luke that you don't have a weapon. He keeps the gun trained on you as you cross the kitchen and approach him. Up close, you can smell the blood and a wild, musky smell that is strange, but not unpleasant. You hold out a towel to him, but he can't take it without putting his gun down, and apparently, he's not going to do that.

Luke hesitates, then holds out his injured arm. His fur, dark and sticky with blood, hides the wound in his forearm. You gently wrap a towel around it.

"There's first aid supplies in the bathroom," you say. "It needs to be washed and properly wrapped."

"I know how to dress a wound," Luke says crossly. "I've been tending to injuries since before you were born."

You take another look at him. It's hard to judge due to the fact that he's an otter, but he doesn't look old enough for that to be true. He's older than you, but no more than four or five years, if you had to guess. "I'm not as young as you think," you say. "Now, let's get you cleaned up." The bathroom is where the ointments and bandages are, but the kitchen sink is closer.