Attention.
“He and his wife would like to visit.”
“When?”
“Whenever you decide.”
Noah looked at the paper in front of him.
“Here?”
“Yes.”
He thought about it.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
“That is not the same as yes.”
“I still want to see him.”
I searched his face.
“Ten thirty?”
“Fine.”
I returned to the phone.
Relief filled Elias’s voice.
His wife’s name was Miriam. They would bring nothing, remain only as long as Noah wanted, and leave the moment he became tired.
I repeated those promises to Noah over lunch.
He nodded.
Then asked, “Does he still blame himself?”
“Yes.”
“Even though I told him I don’t hate him.”
“Guilt is not always responsive to evidence.”
“That sounds like Dr. Whitcomb.”
“She has infected all of us.”
Noah ate two slices of pizza and half my salad.
His appetite fascinated me enough that he threatened to take his food to the sail loft where I could not monitor him.
That evening, he grew quiet during dinner.
