“Angry vacuum cleaner?”
I nodded.
“It is worse in person,” Caleb warned.
We moved toward the rear of the building.
The apartment entrance sat at the top of a steep covered staircase. Beside the handrail, a narrow motorized seat had been mounted on a track.
Noah stared up.
“That’s mine?”
“For six weeks,” I said.
“It looks like an execution device.”
“It has a seat belt.”
“That confirms it.”
Caleb tried not to laugh.
The powered chair would remain downstairs. Owen carried the lighter transfer chair to the landing.
I positioned Noah beside the stair lift.
“We can stop,” I said. “The downstairs room is ready.”
He looked through the open office door.
A bed had been placed in the former chart room, along with a small table and blackout curtains.
It was safe.
It was also not home.
Noah turned back to the stairs.
“I want to see upstairs.”
“All right.”
The transfer required patience.
He locked the powered chair, shifted onto his left leg, and let me support his waist while Caleb steadied the stair-lift seat.
His body was warm beneath my hands.
Too thin.
Too familiar.
Noah lowered himself onto the mechanical chair with a hiss.
“Pain?”
“Manageable.”
