A seizure.
Confusion.
The stairs.
I crossed the hall and pushed open the spare-room door.
Noah lay asleep on the foldout couch.
One of my sweaters was gathered beneath his cheek.
Relief nearly dropped me to my knees.
I stood in the doorway and let my heartbeat slow enough to be useful.
His right hand rested near his face. The brace supported his left arm across his body. One foot had slipped partly from the mattress.
He looked uncomfortable.
He also looked peaceful.
Why here?
The room contained nothing worth finding. Old paperwork. A broken printer. Clothes I had moved out of our bedroom so he would not feel watched.
Had he been searching for me?
The thought warmed and frightened me in equal measure.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
The mattress springs groaned.
Noah stirred.
His eye opened slowly, unfocused at first.
Then he saw me.
“Hey.”
“Hello.”
He looked around.
Confusion moved through his face.
I waited.
“Spare room,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I fell asleep.”
“I noticed.”
“What time?”
