“I can use the other bedroom.”
“That may help.”
“I’ll sleep downstairs if he wants.”
“Reid.”
“I can rearrange everything.”
“You will not be able to eliminate his distress by making yourself smaller.”
The words landed hard.
“I can try.”
“You’ll need support of your own.”
“I don’t need—”
“You do. Not because you are weak. Because grief is occurring inside a relationship that technically still exists.”
I looked toward the closed door.
“He’s alive.”
“Yes.”
“I should be grateful.”
“You are allowed to be grateful and devastated at the same time.”
My eyes burned.
I looked away until I could trust my voice.
“What do we do today?”
“We establish orientation. Name, age, location, year, injury, work, relationships. We’ll assess what he remembers andwhat new information he can retain. I would like you and Leah present.”
“What about photographs?”
“A few. Nothing overtly intimate at first.”
“He’s already been told.”
“Knowing a fact and seeing physical evidence of it are different experiences.”
I thought of the photographs on my phone.
Noah asleep against my shoulder on the ferry.
Noah laughing with flour on his face.
His hand in mine at Caleb’s wedding.
A picture from our anniversary, his mouth against my cheek while I tried not to smile.
“What should I choose?”
