“Fine. We will send photographic proof of every door if that keeps you upstairs.”
“Thank you.”
“You sound terrible.”
“I’m fine.”
He was silent.
Then he said, “No. You’re functioning. That is different.”
The call ended before I could respond.
I returned to bed.
Noah had not moved.
Rain darkened the windows, and the green lamp painted a thin stripe across the floor.
I lay beside him until the two-hour check.
His pain had fallen to four. He opened both eyes. No nausea. No confusion.
He remembered Dr. Whitcomb’s three words.
Lantern.
Pear.
River.
She approved continued observation at home and repeated the emergency signs.
I thanked her.
Then I stood in the kitchen with no idea what to do with my hands.
For weeks, I had believed catastrophe arrived through doors without warning.
A police officer.
A surgeon.
A scream from the workshop.
The immediate danger had passed, yet my body did not understand.
I opened the refrigerator.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
I removed onions, carrots, mushrooms, broth, and beef.
Comfort food.
Something slow.
