Noah leaned back.
His eye was half closed.
“What about work?”
“Your position remains yours,” I said.
“I can’t do it.”
“Not currently.”
“Do customers know?”
“Some know you were injured. No one has details beyond what you approved.”
“Do Caleb and Owen resent me?”
“No.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
The answers came easily because they were true.
He rubbed his forehead.
“I should contribute.”
“You are recovering.”
“That isn’t contribution.”
“It is the work that allows every future contribution.”
Dr. Whitcomb nodded.
“Your job right now is rehabilitation.”
Noah looked irritated.
“That sounds like a phrase printed on a hospital poster.”
“It probably is.”
He almost smiled.
She took the journal from my hand after Noah nodded permission.
She read his entries.
The dream.
The whistle.
The date.
The list of practical worries.
