She came into the waiting room herself.
Her smile warmed when she saw his arm.
“Liberated.”
“Mostly.”
She looked at his face.
“And exhausted.”
“No.”
“Yes,” I said.
Noah glared at me.
Dr. Whitcomb gestured toward her office.
“Both of you.”
Inside, Noah chose the chair nearest mine.
He placed the journal on his lap.
Dr. Whitcomb reviewed the morning’s reports, checked his pupils, asked about headaches, sleep, nausea, appetite, nightmares, and sensory changes.
Noah answered until the questions began to stack.
His speech slowed.
He rubbed the heel of his right hand against his temple.
Dr. Whitcomb noticed.
“We can pause.”
“No.”
“You’re reaching your limit.”
“I need to ask things.”
He opened the journal.
The pages trembled slightly in his hand.
I reached for it.
He let me hold it but kept one finger between the pages.
“I wrote a list.”
“That is excellent,” Dr. Whitcomb said.
“It’s not.”
“Why?”
