“What changed?”
“Work.”
“Only work?”
“Reid.”
I told her about opening the yard and finding the fault.
She listened.
“You recognized the mood and told him,” she said. “That matters.”
“I recognized it after sitting alone for half an hour.”
“Still counts.”
“Everyone says that.”
“Because you keep discounting progress unless it arrives perfectly.”
I looked toward the windows.
“Will this stop?”
“What?”
“Days when I wake and feel like the accident took the wrong parts.”
Maeve’s expression softened.
“I can’t promise they disappear. They should become less frequent and less powerful. You will also build better ways through them.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“Recovery often is.”
I had saved another question for her.
It had occupied an embarrassing amount of space in my journal.
I looked toward the stairs.
Reid remained downstairs.
Maeve noticed the shift.
“What is it?”
“Medical question.”
“Most questions asked during my visits are.”
“It’s about sex.”
She kept her face neutral with professional skill.
“All right.”
