The subject remained between us—unresolved, but not withdrawn.
Alive.
We showered and dressed. Noah insisted on carrying his empty plate to the sink. He stretched his left shoulder while the water ran, working through the exercises Joel had given him.
By eight thirty, we were downstairs.
The yard was officially closed, though the north bay stood open to the harbor air. The storm had passed during the night. Sunlight turned the wet concrete silver.
Noah used the powered chair on the workshop floor. He complained that the motor whined like an anxious insect, then drove it faster than Maeve would have approved.
I unlocked the office.
He rolled toward the sail loft.
“Your panel is covered,” I called.
“I finished the panel.”
“You found two untested gauges yesterday.”
“I delegated them to Owen.”
“Owen delegated them back.”
Noah stopped in the doorway and looked over his shoulder.
“Coward.”
“Employee.”
He went into the loft.
I sat at my desk and opened the insurance portal.
No update.
The temporary wage reimbursement had steadied us, and the Harbor Transit deposit would arrive once the next inspection reports were accepted. We were no longer a missed payment away from disaster.
That did not mean the losses had disappeared.
The van remained a twisted shell in an evidence lot.
Thousands of dollars of test equipment had vanished into rain, mud, and wreckage.
The trucking company’s insurer had acknowledged liability without approving the final valuation. The workers’ compensation insurer wanted another physician’s statement confirming that Noah’s injuries resulted from an accident no one disputed had occurred while he was driving a company vehicle to a scheduled job.
I sent a message asking for a timeline.
Then another.
I checked the junk folder, though I knew no decision had arrived.
A shadow crossed the office door.
“Noah?”
A stranger stood beyond the glass.
