The anger broke open.
His voice dropped.
“Not because you need me to. Because I do.”
Maeve’s expression softened.
Noah released my hand and pressed his palm against his sternum.
“I hear the whistle and know I’m meant to find him. I know his side of the bed. I know the way it feels when he holds me.”
He pulled in a shaking breath.
“But I want one complete thing.”
“Memory often returns through sensation before narrative,” Maeve said.
“What use is sensation without the person attached to it?”
“You associated the whistle with Reid.”
“Because he explained it.”
“You recognized it before he said what it meant.”
Noah shook his head.
“That isn’t enough.”
“No,” I said.
Both of them turned toward me.
I would not offer gratitude as a substitute for grief.
“It isn’t enough,” I repeated. “It is something. But it is not what you want.”
His face crumpled.
I offered my hand.
He took it again.
Maeve gave him time.
Then she asked, “Describe how the whistle appears in the dream.”
Noah closed his eye.
“There’s fog. Or darkness. I can’t tell where I am.”
“Are you frightened?”
“No.”
“What happens after you hear it?”
“I turn.”
