“Marlowe knows three things with certainty. Dinner time. The location of every unattended sandwich. And you.”
The dog opened one eye at the sound of his name, decided I had nothing worth offering, and closed it again.
Noah looked down at him.
“I called him old man.”
“You always did.”
“I didn’t think about it.”
“I know.”
Something moved behind Noah’s expression. Wonder, followed too quickly by frustration.
The memories that returned as knowledge were beginning to torment him almost as much as the memories that did not return at all. A name arriving without an image. A habit without history. The certainty that I sang too early, though he could not remember a single drive during which he had mocked me for it.
He stroked Marlowe’s ear.
“It feels like finding things in my pockets that someone else put there.”
I got to my feet slowly.
“Do you want them to stop?”
“No.”
His answer was immediate.
Then softer, “I just want to know where they came from.”
I stood beside the couch.
“Maybe that part follows later.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then the things are still yours.”
He looked at me for a moment, then turned his attention back to the dog.
I resisted the urge to bend and kiss the top of his head.
Touch had become a landscape I crossed only with invitation. Noah reached for my hand now. He leaned against me when pain exhausted him. He had touched my hair while I sat on the floor.
None of that restored what had existed before.
It was new trust, newly offered.
I would not spend it carelessly.
“What time is it?” he asked.
I checked the clock above the kitchen doorway.
“Nearly seven.”
“You slept two hours.”
