“Did I make this?”
“Most of it.”
“It’s not bad.”
Caleb snorted. “You hated it.”
Noah looked more closely. “Bow’s wrong.”
The room went silent.
My heartbeat struck hard.
Owen’s eyes widened. “That’s exactly what you said.”
Noah frowned, confused by our reaction.
“Do you remember making it?” I asked before I could stop myself.
His face closed.
“No.”
The fragile moment vanished.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
Noah set the hull on the table.
Caleb rescued the conversation by describing a customer who had attempted to charge a boat battery with a household extension cord and two stripped wires. Within minutes, Noah was asking technical questions.
He remembered the work.
Not specific boats or people, but systems, methods, dangers. His knowledge remained intact beneath the missing years.
Listening to him argue about grounding paths almost made the hospital room disappear.
Then his pain increased. His words slowed. He shut his eye.
We left him to rest.
In the hallway, Owen wiped his face with both hands.
“He’s still him,” he said.
“Yes.”
Caleb leaned against the wall. “He looked right at me like we’d never met.”
“I know.”
“I thought I was ready for it.”
“No one is.”
They took me to the cafeteria and made me eat a grilled sandwich. Caleb talked about the yard while Owen watched me with quiet concern.
“We can keep covering,” Caleb said. “Don’t start coming in because you think you have to.”
