Care, contained.
"I'm fine," I say.
"No," he says. "You're on the floor."
"Observant."
"Nolan."
My name. Low. Not a reprimand. A request.
I look away first.
He walks closer but stops outside my reach. Good. He remembers doors. He builds them everywhere.
"Can I help you up?"
"No."
"Can I sit?"
That one is harder.
I shrug.
He sits on the carpet beside me, back against the wall, suit pants probably picking up whatever ancient dust lives in hotel hallways. He does not touch me. He looks at the ice pack, then at my face, then down the hall.
"Katie know?"
"No."
"Should she?"
"Probably."
"Will you call her?"
"No."
He exhales once. Not frustration. Calculation.
"Do you have ibuprofen?"
"In my room."
"Key?"
I do not want to hand him my key. I hand him my key.
The exchange is small and enormous. The key is warm from my pocket. He takes it carefully, like it is not just plastic with a room number printed on the paper sleeve.
"I'll get it," he says. "And more towels."
He goes into my room.
I sit in the hallway and listen to him move around a space that has my bag open on the luggage rack, my shoes by the desk, my suit jacket over a chair. No one goes into my rooms. Hotelrooms are where I control the evidence of myself. Caleb enters for ibuprofen and towels and does not come out holding any of the parts of me I have not offered.
He returns with the bottle, two towels, and a glass of water.
