“You never liked me much before.”
I turned to Trevor.
Noah’s eyebrows rose.
Trevor smiled.
“I sold him digital systems. He accused me of participating in the death of craftsmanship.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Noah said.
“I see the personality survived.”
Noah offered his right hand.
Trevor shook it gently.
They spoke about the gauge.
Within minutes, the conversation had become technical enough that I stopped following every detail. Trevor did not ask whether Noah remembered a trade show, a dinner, or some old joke. He met the man in front of him.
I watched Noah relax.
He explained the corroded contact arm as if Trevor had never seen one. Trevor listened as if he had not spent ten years hearing Noah give the same lecture.
When Noah realized this, he stopped.
“You know all of this.”
“I know your opinion.”
“Probably in excessive detail.”
“Very excessive.”
Noah’s mouth tightened.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t.”
Trevor’s tone lost its humor.
“You don’t owe anyone a performance of remembering them.”
The words struck me.
Noah looked at him.
Then nodded.
“Thank you.”
Trevor glanced toward the open bay.
“I heard about the service van. Did the carrier settle?”
My chest tightened.
