We waited until it eased.
Then continued.
By the time he reached the bottom, sweat darkened the back of his shirt.
He leaned against the rail.
I held my hands near his waist without touching.
Noah looked at me.
“You didn’t narrate.”
“You asked me not to.”
“Thank you.”
I brought the chair behind him.
He lowered himself into it.
The expression on his face was not triumph.
It was relief.
He had done something on his terms.
I opened the workshop door.
Cold air entered first, smelling of rain and salt.
Then the deeper scent of Callahan Marine Works reached us.
Cedar dust.
Machine oil.
Resin.
Wet rope.
Metal heated, worked, and cooled a thousand times.
Noah guided the chair over the threshold.
Then stopped.
His eye closed.
I stood behind him.
“What is it?”
He raised one hand.
“Wait.”
The yard would not officially open for another hour. Rain ticked against the corrugated roof. A refrigeration unit hummed in the storeroom. Somewhere outside, a loose halyard struck a mast.
