“Any confusion about physical boundaries?”
“No.”
He answered more firmly.
“I ask.”
“And Reid?”
“He asks too much.”
Dr. Whitcomb smiled.
“That is preferable to asking too little.”
Noah reached for my hand.
His fingers were cool.
“This morning he left before I woke.”
“I was in the shower.”
“He apologized for being in the next room.”
Dr. Whitcomb looked at me.
“You may not need to treat every discomfort as harm.”
“I know.”
Noah’s thumb moved across mine.
“He’s learning.”
The casual intimacy of the gesture and words reached me unexpectedly.
Dr. Whitcomb noticed his fatigue.
She closed the journal.
“You are progressing. Your awareness of practical responsibilities is a cognitive improvement, even though it feels like another burden.”
“How long until the bench gets bigger?”
“No one can give you a date.”
“I hate that answer.”
“I know.”
“What can I do?”
“Rest before collapse. Keep writing. Practice one decision at a time. Let other people hold information temporarily without surrendering ownership of your life.”
He looked toward me.
“I can do that.”
