Now.
We showered, stripped the bed, and made breakfast.
Noah was hungry again.
He poured an unreasonable amount of maple syrup over his pancakes and claimed it was essential to neurological rehabilitation.
I told him no doctor would support that.
He said I lacked imagination.
Over the next few days, the headaches eased.
His work settled into a rhythm.
Two hours each morning.
Lunch upstairs.
Rest.
Sometimes, if he woke clear-headed, another hour in the loft late in the afternoon.
He no longer waited for one of us to assign him every task. He checked the project board and selected tasks Joel and Maeve had approved as safe.
On Wednesday, he repaired a damaged gauge from Ferry Four.
On Thursday, he found an error in Owen’s load calculation and became unbearable for the remainder of the day.
On Friday, the first insurance payment arrived.
The figure in the account looked unreal.
I stared at it for several minutes before I trusted that it would remain there.
Then I paid the supplier balance.
Cleared the temporary line of credit.
Set aside payroll.
Ordered the safety equipment.
And went to the bank to arrange bonuses for Caleb and Owen.
I told myself the amounts were practical.
They were not.
They were gratitude expressed in numbers because words still felt inadequate.
On the drive back, I stopped at a kitchen-supply shop.
I bought a commercial grinder and an espresso machine for the break room.
The machine cost less than the old generator I no longer needed to sell.
It still felt extravagant.
