Hand on the couch arm.
Turn.
Lower.
No dizziness.
A small victory, though I had asked everyone to stop celebrating every successful movement as if I had crossed an ocean.
Marlowe opened one eye.
“Don’t strain yourself.”
His tail thumped once.
I drove to the bathroom, managed without incident, then returned to the dining table.
The harbor puzzle occupied most of it.
Only the outer edge and a ragged section of water had been completed. Gray roofs, green hills, white boats, and blue-black channels waited in loose groups across the wood.
I had spent nearly an hour the previous day separating colors before realizing half the roofs reflected the sky and therefore belonged in the blue pile.
The mistake had felt personal.
Today, I found a section of dock immediately.
It fit beside the old cannery.
Then another.
I worked until concentration began to press against the inside of my skull.
That was how thinking felt now.
Pressure.
Not pain exactly, though pain usually followed.
My brain could hold only a few objects at once. Add another and something fell.
The doctors used terms like processing speed, cognitive fatigue, executive function. Their words were correct but remote.
To me, it felt like owning a workshop with one small bench.
Every question, noise, decision, memory, and emotion landed on the same surface. Once the bench was covered, nothing else could be repaired until someone cleared space.
I found one more piece.
The image showed the corner of a white roof.
I tried it in three places.
None fit.
The effort suddenly seemed impossible.
I set it down before frustration became anger.
