He nodded.
“And memory may be stirred by familiar surroundings. It may also remain exactly as it is. Both outcomes are possible.”
“I know.”
She looked at me.
“You know where to find us.”
“Yes.”
“Try to sleep.”
“I have been instructed.”
Noah glanced between us. “He doesn’t listen.”
“I know,” Dr. Whitcomb said.
She hugged Noah.
When she stepped back, her eyes were bright.
“Go carefully.”
Outside, the air smelled of wet pavement and salt.
Clouds moved quickly above the hospital roof, breaking occasionally to reveal hard blue sky.
Noah inhaled.
“Too bright?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
The transport attendant pushed him toward the parking area while I carried the bags.
My car waited beneath a cedar tree.
An aging dark-green station wagon with salt stains along the doors and a dent above the rear wheel.
Noah looked at it.
No reaction.
I told myself I had expected none.
The attendant helped transfer him into the passenger seat. I adjusted the backrest, supported his injured side with cushions, and checked the seat belt twice.
“I can breathe,” Noah said.
“I’m aware.”
“You pulled it tight enough to preserve me for shipping.”
“I’ll loosen it.”
“Don’t. You’ll worry.”
