“That’s common after sudden disability, especially when work is central to identity.”
“He remembered a real scene yesterday. Cooking in his old apartment.”
“That’s good.”
“It was. Then he started asking about the yard.”
“Also good.”
“I told him enough to make him feel responsible.”
“You told him the truth?”
“In stages.”
“Then you did not make him responsible. He is responding to information.”
I looked through the open bay.
Caleb had begun setting up for the ferry work. Coils of cable waited on the staging table. Test equipment charged along the wall.
“What if he came down for an hour?”
“To visit?”
“To do something.”
“What kind of something?”
“Low risk. Seated. No live systems. No weight.”
Maeve considered.
“He may tire faster in the workshop. More sound, movement, conversation.”
“We can use the sail loft.”
The loft sat above the repair bay at the rear of the building, separated by thick fire doors. We used it for clean electrical work, canvas repairs, and anything that did not mix well with grinding dust.
“What task?” she asked.
I looked toward a covered crate near Noah’s old bench.
“A decommissioned switch panel from the harbor patrol launch. It’s dead. We’ve been meaning to salvage the meters and trace the original circuits.”
“Can he damage anything important?”
“No.”
“Can it damage him?”
“No.”
“Would he feel insulted if he knew you chose it because it was safe?”
“Yes.”
“Will he realize that anyway?”
