Aaron’s expression changed.
“What kind of knocking?”
“Three hits. Over and over.”
Aaron looked at me, then at Noah.
“I tapped the roof with a Halligan bar.”
Noah went very still.
“Why?”
“We were trying to find a space where the frame hadn’t collapsed. When I reached the rear quarter, you moved.”
The room seemed to shrink around the three of us.
“You heard it,” Aaron said quietly.
Noah’s throat worked.
“Did you talk to me?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“I told you my name. I told you not to move.”
“Did I answer?”
“Not in words. You made a sound.”
Noah stared at the blanket.
“Was there a green light?”
Aaron’s gaze flicked to Mara.
“My helmet lamp has a green position marker on the back.”
A tremor ran through Noah.
I moved before thinking, then stopped when he raised his hand.
Not yet.
He needed space to understand.
Mara spoke gently. “Memories from traumatic events can return as sensation before narrative. That may be what’s happening.”
“Or I made it up.”
“The knocking happened,” Aaron said. “The light happened.”
Noah touched the side of his head.
“Ceiling came down.”
