Maeve turned to me. “Can you do that without entering unless you’re invited?”
“Yes.”
She looked back at Noah. “If you say no?”
“He stays out.”
“If you don’t answer?”
“I check on him,” I said.
Noah nodded.
Maeve wrote the arrangement in her notes with the gravity of drafting an international treaty.
She spent another twenty minutes reviewing hydration targets, sleep patterns, safe transfers, neurological warning signs, and the difference between expected fatigue and symptoms that justified an emergency call.
Then she asked to speak with Noah privately.
I went downstairs without protest.
At least not aloud.
The yard was closed on Sundays, leaving the service bays dim and hollow. Wind moved through the rigging outside, knocking lines against masts in uneven beats.
A handwritten list waited on my desk.
Caleb’s block capitals filled the front:
BUY MILK.
CALL THE SUPPLIER MONDAY.
STOP ACTING LIKE SLEEP IS OPTIONAL.
I turned it over.
Owen had added:
MARLOWE STOLE TWO SAUSAGES. THIS COULD HAVE BEEN PREVENTED.
The absurdity of it steadied me.
Life below the apartment continued to involve damaged boats, forgotten groceries, and a dog with no moral structure. There was mercy in the ordinary.
I checked the marine forecast, replied to three customer messages, and reviewed the security feed from the rear slips.
Maeve texted when she was finished.
Upstairs, I found Noah on the couch beneath a light blanket. His hair was damp and combed away from the scar.
“You showered.”
“With supervision,” he said before I could ask anything else.
Maeve buttoned her coat. “He did well. Some dizziness, but no loss of balance. He’s exhausted, which is normal.”
“Did he keep the brace dry?”
