“Asleep.”
“He made it through a brutal day yesterday.”
“He was still trying to argue with me after he stopped forming complete sentences.”
“That sounds encouraging.”
“It was less encouraging while I was carrying him upstairs.”
Owen wiped his hands on a rag.
“He remembered more, though.”
“A few things.”
I tried to keep my voice even.
The memories had arrived in scattered pieces. A family gathering. My old green overshirt. A shipment delivered to the wrong marina. Marlowe as a younger dog, leaner and less gray. The first navigation lamp Noah had installed after coming to work at the yard.
Most important, he had remembered me inside those moments.
Not as a fact.
As a person.
He remembered my voice. The feeling of my hand. The certainty that we had gone home together afterward.
The change had filled him with joy and terror in equal measure.
It had done the same to me.
Owen folded the rag over the edge of the workbench.
“Harbor Transit called.”
My attention shifted.
“What about?”
“The winter maintenance agreement.”
The contract covered electrical inspections and emergency repairs on twelve passenger launches used by the regional ferry service. It was the largest recurring job on our calendar and the one that kept payroll comfortable through the quiet months.
“They’re renewing early?”
“They want the first four vessels next week.”
“Next week?”
“They’re changing the schedule before the tourist season ends. Something about a grant deadline.”
I looked toward the open bay.
Rainwater shone across the concrete outside. Beyond the yard fence, masts leaned slightly in the wind.
“We can do it.”
Owen’s expression did not change.
