“You don’t owe me an apology.”
He fell asleep before I finished.
Outside the room, I braced both hands against the wall.
Dr. Whitcomb stood beside me.
“You did well.”
“He thinks photographs are fake.”
“His disbelief is a form of self-protection. Imagine being told that your entire life has changed and being shown evidence your mind cannot authenticate.”
“He apologized for not loving me.”
“He apologized for not remembering.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Yes.”
I turned my head.
She met my gaze. “Do not confuse absence of access with proof of absence.”
“That sounds like hope.”
“It is caution.”
I had learned not to trust hope.
I trusted caution even less.
The hospital transferred Noah from intensive care to the neurological ward the following day.
His new room had a window overlooking the eastern hills. There were fewer machines and more space for rehabilitation equipment. The quiet was broken by carts, voices, and the distant ringing of telephones rather than ventilators.
His condition was improving.
His pain remained severe. He tired after short conversations. Sudden noise made him wince. He often forgot the names of nurses, though he recognized their faces and knew whether he had met them before.
He recognized me every morning.
Not as his partner.
As Reid, the man who came early and stayed too long.
I learned to accept the distinction.
“Want the curtains open?” I asked one morning.
He considered the question. “Half.”
I opened them halfway.
“Water?”
He nodded.
