“Yes.”
“How do I know?”
My heart shifted.
“You remember the bathroom?”
“No.”
He frowned at the wall beside the shower.
“There was something there.”
“A wooden shelf.”
“What happened to it?”
“We removed it because the therapist said you might catch your shoulder.”
“I liked it.”
“You complained it was crooked.”
“It was crooked.”
I stared at him.
Noah stared back.
“Did you tell me?”
“No.”
“Photograph?”
“I don’t think so.”
His face brightened, then immediately tightened as he searched for more.
“Don’t chase it,” I said.
“I hate when you say that.”
“I know.”
“It’s there.”
“Let it come.”
“You make it sound like a frightened animal.”
“Maybe memory is.”
He looked again at the empty wall.
“I can see the shelf, but not the room around it.”
“That’s still something.”
