“This is degrading.”
“It’s merely uneven.”
“It has been destroyed.”
“It will taste the same.”
By the fourth mushroom, his control improved.
By the tenth, he was smiling.
We ate in the living room without turning on the television.
Noah asked which boats were booked for Monday. I told him about a trawler with a failed bilge alarm and a sailboat whose owner had repaired a shore-power connection with garden wire.
“That should be a criminal offense,” Noah said.
“It may be.”
“Bring me the old depth gauge tomorrow.”
“The corroded one?”
“Yes.”
“You are not taking it apart until Maeve approves.”
“I only want to inspect it.”
“You will inspect it until it becomes separate components.”
“I dislike how accurately you assume the worst of me.”
I smiled.
“You could come downstairs for an hour.”
Interest sharpened his face, followed immediately by worry.
“Would I interfere?”
“No.”
“Could I work?”
“Not yet.”
The interest faded.
“You could advise.”
“That is worse.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want everyone pretending the injured man is useful.”
“I would not pretend.”
