His right hand lifted unsteadily toward his own shoulder.
Leah covered her mouth.
Noah’s brow furrowed. “Why are you crying?”
She sat carefully on the edge of the chair.
“Because you remember me.”
He looked between us.
“I know who she is,” he said to me, as if he needed confirmation.
“I know.”
The words scraped my throat.
He remembered her.
Not because we had shown him photographs. Not because a doctor had supplied a name. He remembered the length of her hair in a life six years gone.
I should have felt only joy.
Instead, something inside me gave way.
Leah reached for his hand.
Noah offered it without hesitation.
Their fingers closed.
The movement was natural. Unconsidered. Familiar.
He had never touched me that way since waking.
I stepped back.
Noah looked at his sister with wonder and confusion, asking questions faster than his tired brain could shape them.
“How’d you get here?”
“I flew.”
“From Boise?”
“Yes.”
“You still in that house near the school?”
“No. We moved.”
“Why?”
“Better neighborhood. More room.”
“What about the girls?”
“They’re good.”
