“Yes.”
His fingers moved against the blanket.
“I don’t want you changing everything.”
“I’m trying to make it easier.”
“For me.”
“Yes.”
“What about you?”
“I am not currently the priority.”
“That sounds unhealthy.”
“It’s temporary.”
He gave me a tired, unimpressed look.
“I may have lost six years, but I know what lying sounds like.”
I sat on the edge of the armchair opposite him.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is becoming our official motto.”
A weak smile touched his mouth.
Marlowe rested his chin on the couch cushion.
Noah stroked the dog’s ear.
“I want to see the bedroom.”
“Not today.”
His head lifted.
“You don’t get to decide.”
“Your speech is slurring.”
“I’m tired.”
“Exactly.”
Anger flashed.
I held up both hands.
“You’re right. I don’t decide. I’m asking you to wait until the medication works.”
Noah looked toward the hallway.
