“For four hours.”
“I have managed on less.”
“That does not make it sensible.”
“It has kept me alive so far.”
While Noah used the bathroom, I dressed and went to the kitchen.
By the time his chair hummed through the doorway, coffee was brewing and eggs cooked over low heat. Rain silvered the harbor windows, and pale morning light lay across the uneven floorboards.
Marlowe positioned himself between Noah and the stove with shameless optimism.
Noah looked more alert after washing his face, though he still wore the distant expression of someone listening for a sound beyond the walls.
I placed his medication beside a glass of water.
He swallowed it, then pointed at me.
“Do the whistle.”
“You’re six feet away.”
“I want to hear it again.”
I gave the signal.
Two short.
One long.
Marlowe hurried toward me.
Noah smiled.
“He thinks you’re calling him.”
“You trained him to respond.”
“I did?”
“You said a family signal should include the entire family.”
Noah looked down at the dog.
Marlowe sat beside my leg, tail sweeping the floor.
“Did he answer?”
“With saliva.”
“That seems sincere.”
I carried the plates to the table.
Noah watched me sit.
“How often did we use it?”
