“I remember being angry about it.”
“Who were you speaking to?”
His eye closed.
For several seconds, concentration tightened his features.
Nothing came.
Frustration darkened his face.
I sat across from him at the dining table.
“Let’s separate the edge pieces.”
“You are changing the subject.”
“Yes.”
He gave me a severe look, then tipped the box over.
For the next hour, we divided water from rooftops and forest from sky. Noah’s concentration arrived in brief, intense stretches. He would place three or four pieces, rest his head against the chair, then return.
He found the first corner.
I said nothing.
After a moment, he looked at me. “You may acknowledge it.”
“Acknowledge what?”
“That I did well.”
“You identified a corner in a rectangular puzzle.”
“You’re terrible at encouragement.”
“I am respecting your distaste for praise.”
“Selectively.”
“Would you prefer applause?”
“No.”
“A formal certificate?”
“Be quiet.”
I smiled and handed him another edge piece.
At three, I went downstairs to inspect the security alarm and retrieve a package that had been delivered to the office.
When I returned twenty minutes later, Noah sat on the couch beneath the blanket.
The puzzle remained untouched.
His expression was controlled so tightly that fear showed through the seams.
