Ooze.

Sinead poked at it and then picked at it. Catching the edge of the scab and lifting ever so slowly with her fingernail. It lifted slightly but she lost her grip. Then thinking badly of herself, tapped it back down, trying to undo what she had done.

Then morbid curiousity got the better of her. No one was watching.

She pushed down on it and a clear fluid ebbed from the sides of the healing wound. It was spongy to the touch and not crusty as she had first thought. She recoiled in disgust, not expecting that to happen.

Grabbing a tissue from the bedside locker, she dabbed at the clear fluid, mopping it up. Once it had stopped gushing, she became bored.

Glancing at the brownish skin on the top of the knee, she couldn't help herself.

She flicked at it with her thumbnail. Then with her index finger.

It came loose and reddish pink skin was briefly visible as the top of the scab came loose but collapsed back down onto the wound.

That was the last thing she did before falling off the chair beside the bed. Sinead didn't hear her mother enter the room behind her. She gave her a clip of a slap behind the head.
Her mother was disgusted. 

How could a six year old pick a scab like that? In a hospital room?

Off her still unconscious grandmother?