“I know.”
We waited until the floor steadied.
He completed the walk.
No one praised him.
Joel recorded the result.
At the end, he gave us a shorter exercise program than Noah expected.
“That’s it?”
“That is enough.”
“I can do more.”
“You probably can. The goal is to stop before you spend the rest of the day unable to speak clearly.”
Noah looked away.
Joel softened his voice.
“Recovery is not a contest between you and yesterday. Consistency will take you farther than one heroic session.”
“I hate sensible people.”
“You’ll meet many of us.”
Outside, Noah leaned his head against my shoulder in the waiting area.
His left arm rested free across his lap.
“How does it feel?” I asked.
“Light.”
“Pain?”
“Not much.”
“Skin?”
“Weird.”
“You can wash it properly tonight.”
His mouth curved.
“I may stay in the shower for an hour.”
“Maeve will object.”
“Maeve isn’t invited.”
Dr. Whitcomb’s office was on the third floor.
By the time we arrived, Noah’s blinks had slowed.
