He looked away.
After the session, he slept for nearly three hours.
I went downstairs to the hospital café and bought coffee that tasted burned. On impulse, I walked two blocks through the rain to a small bakery Noah loved.
Before the accident, he stopped there every Friday for a smoked-salt caramel and a loaf of sourdough. He claimed the caramel was for the drive back to the yard, though he often arrived with two and pretended the second had been included by mistake.
The woman behind the counter recognized me.
“Oh,” she said softly. “How is he?”
“Getting better.”
It was not a lie.
She packed six caramels into a white paper bag and refused payment.
“Tell him everyone’s thinking of him.”
“I will.”
Back in Noah’s room, I placed the bag beside the magazines on his table.
He was awake, studying the carved boat hull.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“A peace offering.”
“For what?”
“Existing too loudly.”
He looked at me for a moment.
“You’re quiet.”
“Not according to you.”
“According to me now.”
The words settled between us.
I opened the bag. The scent of warm sugar and smoked salt rose immediately.
Noah’s gaze sharpened.
“Caramel?”
“From Alder Street Bakery.”
He looked at the bag as if the name had brushed against something.
“Do I like them?”
“Yes.”
I hesitated. “You can decide whether that’s still true.”
