Noah breathed in.
“I know this.”
The words were almost soundless.
“The smell?”
“All of it.”
He opened his eye and turned toward the left partition.
“There’s a utility sink behind that wall.”
“Yes.”
“A blue mug over it. Cracked at the handle.”
“Yes.”
His gaze moved toward the main workbench.
“The outlets on that side fail whenever the dehumidifier is running.”
My pulse jumped.
“That began last winter.”
He rolled toward the bench.
Beside a locked cabinet, he stopped.
“My soldering station.”
“Yes.”
He did not ask which drawer held his precision tools.
His right hand reached for it automatically.
The drawer slid open.
Cutters, probes, microdrivers, crimpers, and small pliers lay in fitted spaces. Each slot had been labeled in Noah’s handwriting.
He stared down at them.
“I arranged this.”
“You reorganized everything after Owen borrowed three cutters and returned none.”
“I remember being angry.”
The statement sharpened the air.
“Can you see it?”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
