“So did you.”
“I used furniture.”
“I was providing emotional support from a lower elevation.”
“You were snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
Marlowe raised his head.
Noah looked at the dog. “He disagrees.”
“Marlowe has no credibility.”
The dog yawned into Noah’s face.
Noah recoiled, laughing. “His breath is criminal.”
“Now that he has you back, he’ll expect you to brush his teeth again.”
“I did that?”
“Every Sunday.”
“Why?”
“You said periodontal disease was preventable.”
He stared at me.
“You’re making that up.”
“I wish I were.”
Marlowe shifted, pressing a paw dangerously close to Noah’s injured hip.
I stepped closer.
“Let’s get him down before he rearranges your pelvis.”
Noah nodded.
I took Marlowe by the collar and guided him to the floor. The dog objected with a deep groan, then settled at Noah’s feet.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Hungry.”
The answer pleased me more than it should have.
“What sounds good?”
“Anything that doesn’t arrive under a plastic dome.”
“I can cook.”
Noah’s eyebrows lifted.
