My mind wanders in odd directions sometimes.
As I was stitching up a tear in my car seat, I imagined another scenario involving needle and thread.
Scene - post-apocalyptic America
Dark-haired, very stern man, with beard stubble, wearing dirty camouflage jacket. He is obviously the leader of the (unseen) rabble. He bends over an unconscious man on the dirt floor, holding a needle and thread.
He and I are the only conscious people in the room. For some reason, I am standing over the two of them, watching, with my arms crossed.
Leader is sewing up a gaping wound in the patient's arm. One stitch has gone in and he moves the needle a half an inch over to start the second stitch.
Me, mildly: "You know the wound will pucker if you sew it like that."
Leader, growls, trying to be intimidating: "Who's the doctor here?"
Me, not intimidated: "Not you. Not me. But I DO know how to sew."
Leader, scowling: "So?"
Me: "So if you sew it like that, the wound will pucker."
Leader, sneering: "So the scar will be ugly. Big deal."
Me: "So the wound will get infected if it isn't sewn together right."
Fortunately, I finished sewing up the car seat before the Leader could task me with sewing up the wounded man's arm.
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