Between the scalpel in the thigh and what sounds like deadened nerve endings, today just keeps getting better and better.

(Then again, it could be so much worse. That's not something he'll ever forget, for more than one reason.)

"Okay." He yanks the scalpel out, straight and steady as he can, then places the canister opening against the skin and depresses it. Biofoam burns like hell when it goes in, but it should at least seal the wound and keep it from bleeding out. He gives it a second or two to set, then puts his arm around Rich's shoulders to steady him. "C'mon, Dr. Frankenstein, let's get out of here." (Frahn-ken-steen, because when there's a Mel Brooks joke up for grabs you damn well go for it.)