“I know which compartment says Saturday.”
“It’s Sunday.”
The irritation vanished from his face.
For one second, fear took its place.
I lowered my voice. “That’s why I’m handling it this morning. Nothing more.”
His jaw tightened, but he swallowed the tablets without arguing.
I put bread in the toaster and started the coffee. The machine burbled too loudly in the quiet room.
“How much did you sleep?”
“Some.”
“Nightmares?”
He traced the grain of the table with one finger.
I turned from the counter.
“Noah?”
“The room was different.”
“The room in the dream?”
He nodded.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
I waited.
He rubbed the top of his right shoulder. “That was what made it worse.”
I sat across from him.
In the gray light, his face looked younger and more exhausted than it had the day before.
“I kept waking up,” he said. “Every time I opened my eye, I thought someone was supposed to be beside me.”
The confession came quietly enough that I might have mistaken it for an observation.
I kept both hands on the table.
“Marlowe slept with you.”
“I know.”
“But that wasn’t what you meant.”
His mouth tightened with annoyance, though I could not tell whether it was directed at me or at himself.
“He isn’t you.”
