Not because I needed praise.
Because the room felt steadier when he was pleased.
He glanced toward the ceiling.
“Has the yard been too loud?”
“I barely heard it.”
His spoon stopped.
“Nothing?”
“An engine a few minutes ago. Mostly vibration.”
“Caleb dropped a toolbox.”
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago. The entire building shook.”
“I didn’t hear it.”
Reid watched me carefully.
I hated the concern arriving in his face.
“I’m not deaf.”
“I know.”
“Some things get through. Some don’t.”
“We can mention it tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
Imaging.
Orthopedic clinic.
Occupational therapy.
Neurology.
A full day of being examined, measured, and reminded that my own body had become a project managed by committee.
“My head is crowded,” I said.
Reid put down his spoon.
“With pain?”
“Everything.”
I looked at the puzzle because his face required too much attention.
“It’s quiet in there, but there’s no space. I know that doesn’t make sense.”
