“He has also slept beside a laundry hamper.”
Noah ran his hand over the dog’s broad back.
“What do people do all day when they can’t work?”
“Recover.”
“That sounds suspiciously like doing nothing.”
“It is work.”
“It doesn’t feel like it.”
I picked up the rehabilitation folder. “You have the memory journal.”
“I already used it.”
“You wrote this morning?”
He nodded toward the notebook on the side table.
I reached for it, then stopped.
“May I?”
“Yes.”
His handwriting had changed. The letters slanted more than before, and the lines drifted whenever fatigue weakened his control.
First night home.
Knew which shelf held towels.
Knew the bathroom drawer.
Knew Reid’s feet are cold.
Green lamp still feels important.
Marlowe snores worse than Reid.
I looked at him. “The final claim is malicious.”
“Prove it false.”
I turned the page.
Dream again. Metal and white light. Not alone in it now.
Beneath that, written smaller:
The bed felt wrong without him.
I closed the journal gently.
Noah’s face reddened.
“You gave me permission.”
