“Good.”
“I knew you hadn’t left.”
“I told you I wouldn’t.”
“I know.”
He studied me.
“You’re pale.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I showered.”
“That generally adds color.”
I looked away.
Noah pushed himself upright.
“Come here.”
“You need to rest.”
“So do you.”
“I’m fine.”
He let go of my hand.
The withdrawal was small.
Deliberate.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Give me the same answers you give doctors.”
I looked at him.
His hair lay flattened on one side. The scar at his temple was pale beneath it. He had spent the afternoon trapped inside the worst minutes of his life, and he still saw through me with merciless clarity.
“I was frightened,” I said.
“I know.”
“No.”
My voice cracked.
“You don’t.”
He waited.
