Jem wasn't making tea like I'd assumed. Instead he was washing his hands in the gushing stream of boiling water. It bubbled over his skin, which was red and inflamed and bleeding, scarred with raw flesh and white, shiny blisters. He was scrubbing at his hands as if he thought they were covered in soap, and, as I watched, a huge chunk of flesh came right off, landing on the floor with a wet slap, exposing the white bone beneath the ruined red skin.