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Noah tasted it.

His expression brightened.

“Still good.”

We bought some.

By the time we reached the final aisle, his words had begun to slow.

“We should go,” I said.

“I want cheese.”

“We have cheese.”

“Not that cheese.”

He pointed to a wheel coated in herbs.

“You have never eaten it.”

“Then it can become a new memory.”

We bought the cheese.

In the parking lot, he struggled to lift his right foot onto the car step.

I moved beside him.

“I can do it.”

“I know.”

He tried again.

The angle put too much strain on his hip.

I put one hand beneath his elbow.

“I said I can.”

The sharpness in his voice turned two heads.

I released him immediately.

Noah gripped the doorframe.

On the third attempt, he managed the step and lowered himself into the seat, breathing hard.

I loaded the chair without speaking.

The drive home passed in silence.

Upstairs, I carried the bags into the kitchen.

Noah began unpacking.

Fatigue made his movements clumsy. He placed the spinach in a cabinet, stared at it, swore, and transferred it to the refrigerator.