“I’m trying not to hurt you.”
“That’s not all.”
I checked the footrest unnecessarily.
“No.”
“What else?”
I met his gaze.
“I remember what touching you used to mean.”
His expression changed.
“And I don’t,” he said.
“I know.”
“That must be strange.”
“It is.”
“Bad strange?”
“Sometimes.”
The honesty settled between us.
Noah looked down at his right hand on the chair control.
“I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I know you keep saying that.”
“I’ll keep saying it until you stop taking responsibility for an injury.”
He nudged the chair forward.
The movement nearly ran over my foot.
“Attempted murder is different,” I said.
“Move faster.”
I led him down the hall.
The bathroom door had been widened before discharge, though only by removing the trim and changing the hinges. A shower chair stood inside the glass enclosure. Grab bars had been installed near the toilet and sink. Towels lay folded within easy reach.
Noah stopped in the doorway.
“You changed this.”
“Yes.”
“The bars are new.”
