“That part wasn’t bad.”
I reached across the console.
He gave me his hand.
We sat until his breathing eased.
Then I unloaded the chair.
The orthopedic clinic discontinued the brace after new imaging showed sufficient healing.
Noah insisted I remain beside him.
I watched the technician unfasten the supports and lift the molded shell away.
His left arm looked thinner than the right. The skin was pale where sunlight had not reached it. A long healing incision crossed his upper arm.
Noah stared.
“It doesn’t look like mine.”
“It is.”
“Smaller.”
“Temporary muscle loss,” the clinician said. “That will improve.”
He touched the skin carefully.
Then scratched.
A groan of relief escaped him.
The clinician laughed.
“That is everyone’s first priority.”
“I’ve been trying to fit a ruler under there for days.”
I looked at him.
“You did not tell me that.”
“You would have confiscated the ruler.”
“Correct.”
He was fitted with a light sling for crowded places and told to leave the arm free at home. No lifting. No sudden extension. No reaching above shoulder height.
Noah listened to half of it.
The clinician handed me the printed restrictions.
He noticed.
“I heard.”
“Repeat them.”
