Up to this point, we’ve successfully relied (almost entirely) on angelic intervention. Tom the Son did a few emergency bandaging efforts, but they weren’t life-threatening.
Tom also got me to call 911, when the kid from New York up the street threw a rock at Tom’s head, and Tom staggered up to the door drenched in blood.
When I was five, my head was split open by the neighborhood meanie, and I would have been fine had my sister not said, “*gasp* You’re BLEEDING!” At that point, I started to cry.
There was no 911, and we had a party line, so I don’t know how that would have worked. My mother just cleaned me up, pronounced me fine, and I lived to tell the tale.
Head wounds always bleed profusely.