The clouds shifted, and a thin wash of brightness crossed the courtyard.
Noah squinted.
I stood at once.
“Too bright.”
“Yes.”
I lifted his foot back onto the support and replaced the slipper.
“Ready?”
He nodded.
As I wheeled him toward the doors, he said, “The word.”
“What word?”
“Still isn’t right.”
“No?”
He considered.
“Safe.”
My hands stopped on the chair.
Noah turned as far as his injuries allowed.
“You make me feel safe.”
I looked down at him.
The hospital, the courtyard, the entire ruined month narrowed to his face.
“I’m glad,” I said, though the words were barely sound.
We returned through the ward more slowly than necessary.
Near the cafeteria, the smell of fried potatoes drifted into the corridor.
Noah lifted his head.
“Food.”
“You just ate.”
“Hours ago.”
“It was forty minutes.”
“Brain injury.”
“That cannot become your defense for everything.”
“It’s a good defense.”
