“You never apologize for my hope.”
The corridor was busier than usual.
People glanced at Noah as we passed. Some looked away quickly. Others stared at the scar, the brace, the careful arrangement of his injured body.
My hands tightened on the wheelchair handles.
Noah noticed.
“Don’t fight anyone.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“You look like it.”
“I always look like this.”
“No. You look harder.”
We reached the courtyard.
Clouds softened the daylight. Wind moved through ornamental grasses near the path, carrying the scent of wet soil.
Noah drew in a deep breath.
His shoulders lowered.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
I wheeled him toward a sheltered alcove beneath a cedar pergola.
A raised garden bed stood nearby, full of rosemary and winter pansies. Rainwater still jeweled the leaves.
Noah looked toward the patch of grass beyond the path.
“Can we go there?”
“The chair will sink.”
“Close.”
I brought him to the edge.
He stared at the ground.
“What?”
“My foot.”
I understood.
His left foot rested on the support. The right remained protected.
I knelt and eased off his slipper.
The air was cool.
