“Was it frightening?”
“No.”
He lifted his head slowly.
“It felt quiet.”
Then pain crossed his face.
I reached for the water before he had to ask. He drank, and the moment narrowed around practical things again.
Medication.
Soup.
Crackers.
Curtains drawn against the glare.
Noah ate half a bowl and three crackers. When I suggested the bedroom, he refused. When I offered to put on another film, he shook his head.
“What would help?” I asked.
He stared at the floor. “I don’t know.”
“That’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t.”
His voice sharpened.
“Every question feels like an examination. What do I want to eat? Which shirt do I want? What do I want to watch? Everyone expects me to choose, and I have no feelings about any of it.”
I leaned back, giving his anger room.
“I can make the decisions.”
“Then I’m just doing whatever you tell me.”
“Which is worse?”
“Both.”
The answer burst out with real fury.
Then his expression collapsed.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
I put my own bowl aside.
“You don’t apologize for hating this. You are allowed to resent being offered choices and resent having them taken away.”
His eye shone.
“I don’t know how to exist here.”
