“Where’s the honey?”
I gave it to him.
The sight of him pouring far too much into the bowl felt so familiar that my chest ached.
He looked up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Face.”
“What face?”
“The memory face.”
I sat opposite him.
“You always drowned oatmeal in honey.”
“That is not a meaningful memory.”
“It is to me.”
He considered.
“Then keep it.”
The answer settled warmly.
After breakfast, he showered while I packed medication, the journal, water, snacks, appointment letters, a change of clothes, and enough emergency supplies to cross a desert.
Noah emerged wearing a loose navy shirt and dark pants.
He looked at the bag.
“Are we moving?”
“It is a long day.”
“We are going to a hospital, not the moon.”
“The moon has fewer forms.”
I carried the powered chair down using the service elevator while Noah used the stair lift. He complained about the noise until we reached the bottom.
Caleb waited near the office with a travel mug.
“You look thrilled,” he told Noah.
“Medical tourism.”
“Bring me a souvenir.”
“I’ll steal a tongue depressor.”
Owen came from the main bay.
