“That I was coming home early.”
The workshop narrowed around us.
Noah opened his eye for a heartbeat. It was unfocused, fixed on a place beyond my shoulder.
“I finished the marina job sooner than I thought. I was going to bring soup.”
“You never called.”
“I reached for the phone.”
His fingers moved as though repeating the action.
“A horn.”
His body jerked.
I caught his shoulders.
“You’re here.”
“The road turned white.”
“Rain?”
“Headlights. Spray.”
His head snapped toward his right shoulder.
“There were pipes.”
The load from the flatbed.
The failed restraints.
The police photographs I had studied until every detail lived behind my eyes.
“They came sideways,” he gasped. “One hit the hood. Another broke through the windshield.”
His hand flew toward his face.
“Glass.”
“Noah.”
“The van spun.”
His breath stopped.
For one terrible second, so did mine.
Then he dragged in air.
“I couldn’t feel the tires.”
His gaze fixed on something none of us could see.
“The trees were below me. I thought I was falling into them.”
