He studied me.
“What would you actually let me do?”
“Review a wiring diagram. Examine the depth gauge. Explain to Caleb why his labeling system offends reason.”
“That last task sounds necessary.”
“It may be the most important work in the yard.”
He took another bite of salmon.
“Maybe.”
“Only if you feel well.”
“No promises.”
“None.”
After dinner, we returned to the puzzle.
Noah fitted three pieces into the curve of the harbor. I completed one corner of the old cannery roof.
“We’re good at this,” he said.
“We have assembled six inches of overcast sky.”
“Teamwork.”
The word warmed me more than it should have.
At eight, his speech began to slow. I suggested medication and bed.
He refused for fifteen minutes, then forgot what he was resisting and asked why I had not brought his tablets.
I handed them over without remark.
His frustration showed anyway.
“Did we date?” he asked suddenly.
I looked up from clearing the water glasses.
“Yes.”
“I know we were together. I mean dates. Planned ones.”
“Many.”
“What was the first?”
I sat beside him.
“Do you want the flattering version?”
“No.”
“Our first official date ended with you trapped in a marina bathroom.”
