Genius iq

I settled cautiously down onto Murphy's old couch. It creaked as I did. Murphy isn't large, and I doubt that her grandma was, either. I'm not exactly layered in muscle, but as tall as I am, no one ever mistakes me for a lightweight. I shoved some doilies off the coffee table so that they wouldn't get blood all over them, and propped my throbbing leg up on the table. It took a little bit of the pressure off of the injury, which didn't mean it stopped hurting. It just hurt a little bit less aggressively. Whatever, anything was a relief.
I sat like that until Butters emerged from the hall that went back to the bathroom and the house's two bedrooms. He had Murphy's medical kit in hand. I remembered one of those little standard first-aid kits that would fit into the glove box of a car. Murphy had evidently been planning ahead. She'd replaced the little medical kit with one the size of a contractor's toolbox.
"I don't think I'm quite that hurt," I told Butters.
"Better to have it and not need it," he replied quietly. He set down the kerosene lamp and the toolbox. He rummaged in the box, came out with a pair of safety scissors, and set about stripping the bandage away, his motions smooth and confident. Once he had the bandage clear, he peered at the injury, moved the lamp to get a better look, and winced. "This is a mess. You've popped the two center sutures." He glanced up at me apologetically. "I'll have to replace them, or the others are going to tear out one at a time."
I swallowed. I did not want to do sutures without anaesthetics. Hadn't I already experienced enough pain for one day?
"Do it," I told him.
He nodded and set about cleaning the bloodied skin around the injury. He wiped his hands down with a couple of sterilizing wipes, and snapped on some rubber gloves. "There's a topical here. I'll use it, but it's not much stronger than that stuff you get for a toothache."
"Just get it over with," I said.
He nodded, produced a curved needle and surgical thread, adjusted the lamp again, and set to work. He was fairly quick about it. I did my best to hold still. When he was finished, my throat felt raw and rough. I hadn't actually done any yelling, but only by strangling any screams before they came out.
I lay there kind of limply while Butters re-covered the wound. "You started on the antibiotics, right?" he asked.
"Not yet," I said.
He shook his head. "You should take them right away. I don't want to think about what might have gotten into the wound back at your apartment." He swallowed and went a little pale. "I mean, my God."
"That's the worst part about the walking dead," I said. "The stains."
He smiled at me, or at least he tried to. “Harry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I…” He shook his head. “I was useless back there. Worse than useless. You could have been hurt.”
Thomas appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, pale and silent. He arched his brow, somehow managing to say, “I told you so,” without actually opening his mouth.
I glared back at him, in an effort to convey several uncharitable things. He smiled a little and faded back into the kitchen. Butters missed the whole thing.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You ever had anything like this happen before?”
“Like zombies and ghosts and necromancers?” Butters asked.
“Like life-threatening and dangerous,” I said.
“Oh.” He was quiet for a minute. “No. I tried to go into the army, but I couldn’t make it through boot. Wound up in the hospital. Same thing when I tried to be a policeman. The spirit was willing, but Butters was weak.”
“Some people just aren’t cut out for that kind of thing,” I told him. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Sure, it isn’t,” he said, but he wasn’t agreeing with me. “
You can do a lot that I can’t,” I told him. I nodded at my leg.
“But this stuff is…hell, it’s simple,” Butters said. “I mean, the words get a little bit long. But all in all, it isn’t that complicated.”
“Listen to yourself, Butters,” I told him. “You’re sitting there with a straight face saying that medicine and medical forensics is simple, except for the long words. Do you have any clue what it’s like to not be as intelligent as you?”
He shook his head impatiently. “I’m not some kind of genius.” He frowned. “Okay, well, technically I have a genius IQ, but that isn’t the point. A lot of people do. The point is that I’ve spent most of my adult life doing this. That’s why I can do it well.”
“And the point is,” I told him, “that I’ve spent most of my adult life doing zombies and ghosts and other things trying to kill me. That’s why I can do it well. We’ve got different specialties. That’s all. So don’t beat yourself up for not being better at my job than I am.”

Dead Beat Chapter 24, Page 215-217