“Immediately.”
Maeve smiled.
“Then tell him the truth. It is safe and useful.”
“He’ll overdo it.”
“Set a clear stopping time before he starts.”
“He will negotiate.”
“Then you negotiate before he is exhausted.”
She touched my arm.
“You cannot return his old life to him. You can help him participate in the one he has now.”
I carried that sentence upstairs.
Noah sat at the dining table, moving puzzle pieces without looking at the picture.
Maeve examined him, checked his healing arm, reviewed medication, tested balance, and asked the questions she always asked.
When she finished, she joined me in the kitchen while Noah wrote in the journal.
“He is physically doing well,” she said quietly. “The low mood needs watching, but he is not describing self-harm. He feels disconnected.”
“I have an idea.”
“Good.”
“Tell him it came from you.”
“No.”
“He respects medical authority.”
“He should practice trusting your judgment too.”
I disliked how often professionals said things that made sense.
After Maeve left, I sat opposite Noah.
He did not look up.
“I have a proposition.”
“No more puzzles.”
“Not that kind.”
His fingers stopped.
“There’s an old control panel downstairs.”
“What kind?”
“Harbor patrol launch. Late eighties. Navigation lights, bilge alarms, auxiliary pumps. The labels are damaged and half the terminals are corroded.”
