“Do not hover.”
“I don’t hover.”
Everyone looked at me.
“I provide proximity.”
Noah laughed.
The pharmacy technician left.
The nurse removed the final hospital identification band from Noah’s wrist.
He rubbed the pale strip of skin beneath it.
“That’s it?” he asked.
“That’s it,” Dr. Whitcomb said.
He stared at his bare wrist.
“I thought it would feel different.”
“Discharge rarely comes with trumpets.”
“Could have arranged one.”
“I spent the trumpet budget on your medication.”
Priya wheeled in a standard chair.
Noah frowned.
“I have my own.”
“Hospital policy.”
“Your policy lacks imagination.”
“It also lacks lawsuits.”
I helped him transfer.
This time he needed only my hand at his elbow.
The powered chair and duffel went onto a transport cart.
Noah said goodbye to the nurses.
Tessa hugged him carefully.
Priya threatened to double his exercises if he modified the chair.
Dr. Whitcomb walked with us through the hospital.
At the main entrance, she stopped.
“Your world may feel larger than you expect,” she told Noah. “Do not mistake discomfort for failure.”
