At the gate, he apologized again for mentioning the claim.
“It was going to come up,” I said.
“He looks better than I expected.”
“He is.”
“He also watches you before he answers difficult questions.”
I glanced back toward the workshop.
Noah sat beneath the loft light, looking down at the gauge.
“He trusts me.”
“More than that.”
Trevor put on his sunglasses.
“Whatever he forgot, he still orbits you.”
I did not know what to say.
Trevor clapped my shoulder and left.
Noah was no longer in the loft when I returned.
I found the powered chair near the south bay and heard movement aboard Mercy.
The twenty-foot cedar runabout rested on blocks near the open doors. Noah and I had rebuilt her over two winters from a rotting hull we bought for almost nothing. She was our personal boat, though work and weather had kept her on land for most of the last year.
Noah sat at the helm.
I stopped beneath the gunwale.
“How did you get up there?”
“Ladder.”
“Alone?”
He touched the wheel.
“I used both rails.”
“That was not my question.”
“I wanted to see.”
I looked at the ladder, then at the height of the deck.
Fear rose quickly enough to become anger.
I swallowed it.
“Do you need help coming down?”
“Not yet.”
