The word came clearly.
That mattered.
It did not matter enough.
I checked his face for asymmetry. His mouth moved evenly. He had equal strength in both hands. He knew me. He knew where he was.
Fear sent ice through my chest.
“I’m calling an ambulance.”
Noah’s left hand shot out and locked around my wrist.
“No hospital.”
“You almost collapsed.”
“Memory.”
His breathing accelerated.
“Not happening now. Already happened.”
“Your head—”
“Cal.”
The private name broke on a sob.
“Please.”
I looked at Caleb.
“Call Dr. Whitcomb. Tell the office it’s urgent. If they can’t reach her, use the neurology line.”
Caleb pulled out his phone and moved quickly toward the office.
Owen crouched beside us.
“Do you need something to be sick in?”
Noah swallowed.
“Yes.”
Owen dumped a plastic tray of electrical terminals onto the workbench and handed it to me. I settled it across Noah’s thighs.
He bent over it, shaking.
Nothing came up.
Only torn breaths.
Only tears.
“I can see the road,” he whispered.
I went down on one knee between his legs.
