There was only Noah in my arms and the unbearable knowledge that while he had been pinned in darkness, bleeding and unable to breathe, he had been thinking of me.
Caleb returned with the phone.
“Dr. Whitcomb’s on.”
I took it without loosening my hold on Noah.
“Reid?”
“I’m here.”
Caleb and Owen moved away but stayed close enough to help.
I described everything.
The song.
The sudden memory.
The pain.
I described his eye clamped shut, the sweating, the near-collapse, the nausea, his preserved speech, his equal strength, and the absence of new weakness.
Dr. Whitcomb questioned Noah through the speaker.
His name.
The date.
Where he was.
The current president.
Three words to remember.
He answered all of them, though the date took him several seconds.
“Any new numbness?” she asked.
“No.”
“Vision changes beyond the light sensitivity?”
“Blurred because I’m crying.”
“That qualifies as humor. I find that reassuring.”
The corner of Noah’s mouth almost moved.
“Pain level?”
“Seven.”
“Is it different from your usual headaches?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
