The late-afternoon light reached through the open bay behind her, laying long bars of gold across the concrete. She had one hand hooked beneath the strap of her bag and the expression she wore when she had something important to say but did not want to alarm me.
“How’s he doing?” I asked.
“Asleep already.”
“Headache?”
“He rated it a three. No dizziness, no visual changes, nothing neurologically concerning.”
Some of the tension left my shoulders.
Maeve adjusted her bag but made no move toward her car.
“He told me he felt like a burden this morning.”
The word struck too close to another one Noah had used.
“Useless,” I said.
It had been sitting inside me since breakfast, sharp-edged and immovable.
Maeve’s eyes softened. “He said that to you?”
“He asked whether I was going to get tired of taking care of him.”
Her mouth tightened.
“I’ll document it,” she said. “Not because I think he’s in immediate danger. But recurring thoughts about worthlessness need attention.”
“He didn’t sound hopeless.”
“No.” She glanced toward the apartment windows above the workshop. “He sounded afraid.”
Fear, I understood. Fear had occupied every room in our lives since the accident, sometimes quietly, sometimes with its hands around our throats.
“He’s progressing remarkably well,” Maeve continued. “That doesn’t mean every day will feel like progress to him.”
“I know.”
“Are you still finding useful things for him to do?”
“Anything he can manage without exhausting himself or aggravating the hip.”
“He notices that.”
“Noah notices everything.”
“He appreciates it too.”
That did not surprise me. Even when his memory failed him, he read patterns, moods, pauses. His mind might take the long route now, but it still reached places other people missed.
Maeve started toward the parking area, then stopped.
“There’s something else.”
The measured tone returned.
“What happened?”
