“Callahan Marine Works.”
“Reid?”
The voice took me a moment to place.
“Elias.”
“Yes. Elias Grant.”
The truck driver.
The man who had visited Noah in the hospital and worn the collision across his face like another injury.
“How are you?”
“Improving.”
He sounded older than he had during our last conversation.
“How is Noah?”
“Working downstairs.”
Silence.
Then a breath.
“That’s good.”
“It is.”
“My wife and I wondered…”
He stopped.
I waited.
“Would it be all right if we came by? Not at the hospital. I know that visit was difficult. Just for a few minutes.”
“That is Noah’s decision.”
“Of course.”
“Hold.”
I crossed the workshop.
Noah sat beside the ferry console, recording readings on the inspection sheet.
He looked up.
“Who is it?”
“Elias Grant.”
His expression changed.
Not fear.
