“But I know I was angry.”
“That matters.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
His attention shifted toward the break room.
“The kettle clicks after it turns off.”
“For nearly ten minutes.”
“The refrigerator light is too bright.”
“You covered half of it with tape.”
Noah guided the chair through the doorway.
A strip of black electrical tape still covered one side of the refrigerator housing.
He touched it.
“I remember putting this here.”
This time, wonder overtook the frustration.
Not a complete scene.
Not a conversation.
An action connected to himself.
He had placed the tape there.
He knew it.
Noah laughed.
The sound echoed through the empty workshop.
“I remember hating that light.”
“You called it interrogation lighting.”
“Did I?”
“Frequently.”
He rolled back into the main bay, still smiling.
A battered radio sat on the shelf near Owen’s bench.
Noah pointed.
“That station loses reception before rain.”
“It does.”
