“No.”
“What are you?”
The question could have meant my profession.
It could have meant something else.
“I own a boat-repair yard.”
He frowned.
“In Greyhaven,” I added.
“Where?”
“Oregon.”
He looked at me again. “Why are you here?”
I had rehearsed a hundred answers in the hallway. None of them survived his expression.
“Because you’re important to me.”
His eye narrowed slightly.
“How?”
My pulse beat in the fresh wound inside me.
“The doctors want to explain everything when you’re rested.”
“Tell me.”
“You were in an accident.”
“Know that.”
“You’re thirty-three.”
“No.”
He said it with quiet certainty.
“You are.”
“No.”
“Your birthday was in March.”
He turned his face away. “I’m twenty-seven.”
“I know that’s what it feels like.”
His breathing changed. The monitor quickened.
I stood but did not approach.
“All right. We don’t have to talk about it.”
