But when I pushed his wheelchair back toward the ward, his hand remained wrapped around mine.
And when the elevator doors opened, he looked up at me as though he already knew I would be there when they closed again.
Chapter 7
REID
The next four days refused to form a pattern.
On Monday, Noah spent twenty minutes in the rehabilitation garden and returned to his room flushed with victory. On Tuesday, the light from the corridor made him vomit before breakfast. Wednesday brought a clearer voice, a steadier right hand, and a headache so vicious he could barely open his eyes.
By Thursday, he could transfer from the bed to the wheelchair with one person assisting instead of two.
Everyone called that progress.
I was learning that progress did not always look merciful.
Sometimes it looked like Noah sweating through his shirt because sitting upright demanded everything he had. Sometimes it looked like him remembering the year but forgetting that Leah had returned to Idaho. Sometimes it looked like laughter over a terrible cup of tea, followed ten minutes later by confusion so deep he asked what floor he was on.
The doctors warned us that recovery would move unpredictably. Noah’s brain was repairing damaged pathways while trying to manage pain, language, balance, sleep, and the ordinary work of keeping him alive. There would be sharp turns and hidden drops.
Knowing that did not make the drops easier.
When I returned after the ward’s afternoon rest period, Noah’s door was half open.
The room was quiet.
He lay angled toward the window, the blanket caught beneath one knee. The photographs from the small blue album had been scattered across the table. A deck of playing cards sat beside them, several cards faceup as though he had abandoned a game of solitaire halfway through.
I placed my bag on the floor and lowered myself into the familiar chair.
Noah slept heavily these days, but never peacefully.
His mouth moved first.
A word without sound.
Then his right hand flexed against the sheet.
I watched for a moment, waiting to see whether he would settle.
His shoulder jerked.
The monitor clipped to his finger gave a sharp complaint.
“Noah?”
His face tightened.
He made a low, trapped sound and pulled against the brace on his left arm.
I stood.
“Noah, wake up.”
He did not.
His breathing came faster. His feet shifted beneath the blanket, the injured side twisting enough to make him groan.
