“Everyone tried.”
His thumb hovered above the screen.
A tremor moved through it.
“I don’t want to open them.”
“Then don’t.”
He locked the phone at once, as though relieved to be given permission.
A nurse appeared in the doorway.
“Your visitor has arrived.”
Noah’s right hand shifted across the blanket.
Not quite reaching for me.
Close enough.
“You’re staying?”
“Yes.”
“Here.”
His fingers opened.
I placed my hand in his.
The nurse stepped aside, and Elias Grant entered the room.
He looked older than he had in Mara’s photograph.
White threaded the hair at his temples. Deep grooves ran from his nose to the corners of his mouth. His blue button-down was clean and sharply pressed, but the collar sat too tightly against his throat, as though he had dressed himself with hands that would not stop shaking.
He carried nothing.
No flowers.
No fruit basket.
No object meant to soften what could not be softened.
A woman stood behind him in the corridor. She wore a red wool coat and held her handbag against her chest with both hands.
Elias came three steps into the room and stopped.
His gaze found Noah.
For several long seconds, he appeared unable to breathe.
Noah’s fingers closed harder around mine.
The man swallowed.
“My name is Elias Grant,” he said. His voice scraped on the words. “I was driving the flatbed.”
