“No.”
“You sound as if you do.”
“I choose words quickly and regret them privately.”
“That seems unhealthy.”
“It has served me well.”
He finished half the sandwich, then pushed the plate away.
“That’s enough.”
“For now.”
“I’m not eating grapes.”
“They’re harmless.”
“They roll.”
“A damning quality.”
He took one anyway.
I stood.
“I need to go back down.”
“I know.”
“I’ll be upstairs before six.”
“I know.”
“The speaker will announce food at four.”
“That sounds threatening.”
“It will say snack.”
“Worse.”
I took our plates to the sink.
Behind me, the chair motor stopped.
I turned.
Noah had risen.
He stood with one hand braced against the table. His balance looked stable, though his left leg carried most of his weight.
“What do you need?”
He held out his arms as far as his healing left shoulder allowed.
“You.”
