“I will.”
He breathed out.
“And don’t call the therapist if I swear.”
“I would spend my entire life on the phone.”
His mouth twitched.
“Ready?”
“No.”
I waited.
After several breaths, he held out his hand.
“Now.”
I helped him stand.
No praise.
No reassuring commentary.
My hand stayed near his waist without touching.
Noah balanced, shifted, and lowered himself into the chair.
When he settled, he looked at me.
“Thank you.”
“You did the work.”
“That sounded like praise.”
“It was a factual division of labor.”
He rolled his eyes.
At the bedroom, I pulled back the covers.
Noah transferred onto the mattress and lifted his legs with only a small amount of help. Marlowe waited near the door until Noah patted the bed.
The dog jumped up with unexpected athleticism and circled twice near the foot.
“He remembered where he sleeps,” Noah murmured.
“Yes.”
I arranged the medication and water on the bedside table.
“The bathroom light stays on. My door will be open. Your phone is here. Press my name and it calls me.”
“You’re fifteen feet away.”
“I appreciate redundancy.”
