Below me, an engine turned over.
The sound came through the floor as a faint vibration rather than noise.
I stopped.
The yard had been operating all morning. Reid had left before eight. Caleb and Owen had arrived soon after. Tools must have been running directly beneath me.
I had heard almost nothing.
I looked toward the floorboards.
Perhaps my brain was filtering it out. Dr. Whitcomb had explained that sensory processing could become inconsistent after injury. Some sounds were unbearable. Others never reached conscious attention.
Yesterday, the click of the toaster had startled me hard enough to make my vision flash.
Today, an engine existed beneath my chair and might as well have been underwater.
The stairwell door opened.
Reid appeared carrying a tray.
He wore dark work pants and a faded blue henley with the sleeves pushed to his forearms. Rain had dampened his hair at the temples. A narrow streak of pale dust crossed one shoulder.
My stomach performed a small, ridiculous turn.
There he was.
The man from the dream.
The man whose face I did not remember but whose whistle could find me in the dark.
His gaze landed on me at the table.
Warmth replaced the concentration in his expression.
“Good morning again.”
“It’s afternoon.”
“Barely.”
He brought the tray to the table.
Two bowls.
Bread.
A plate of sliced apples.
“What is it?”
“Roasted tomato soup.”
“Did you make it?”
“No.”
“Good.”
