“It does.”
“No, it doesn’t. Quiet should mean empty.”
“Not necessarily.”
I tried to find the right words.
“My brain feels like the yard after a storm warning. Every boat is inside at once. Nothing can move because everything’s packed too close.”
Reid nodded as though that explained it perfectly.
“So when I ask what you want for lunch—”
“That becomes another boat.”
“And if I ask whether you want mustard, cheese, soup, or eggs—”
“You’ve sunk the harbor.”
He leaned back.
“That is useful to know.”
“I should be able to decide what I want to eat.”
“You will.”
“I knew before.”
“Your brain wasn’t healing before.”
I dipped the bread again.
“It’s strange knowing I should care about things and not being able to reach them.”
“What things?”
“Work. Money. The apartment. My phone bill. Whether I still have health insurance.”
Reid’s expression altered so slightly I might have missed it before the accident.
A pause.
A tightening at the corner of his mouth.
“You don’t need to handle any of that today.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.”
He folded his hands on the table.
“Your medical expenses are being processed through the trucking company’s insurer and your workers’ compensation claim. Your personal bills are set to automatic payment. You still receive salary while the claim is pending.”
“I pay rent?”
“You contribute to the mortgage and household costs.”
