He leaned back.
“Clinic.”
“You still want to go?”
“Yes.”
The sexual-health clinic occupied a quieter building two blocks away.
The visit was unremarkable.
Forms.
Questions.
Blood draw.
Urine sample.
The nurse explained that routine results would arrive in the secure portal within several days.
Noah looked exhausted by the time we returned to the car.
“Coffee?” I asked.
“Real?”
“No.”
“Then cruel.”
I bought him decaf anyway and a blueberry muffin.
He ate half the muffin before falling asleep against the window.
At home, he slept for four hours.
I called our bank and scheduled an appointment with a fiduciary adviser unaffiliated with the yard. Then I placed every settlement document in the office safe beside the ring.
Their proximity carried a symbolism I did not want to examine.
Money for what was lost.
A ring for what might still be chosen.
When Noah woke, evening had reached the harbor.
He found me at the kitchen table reading the clinic paperwork.
“How’s your head?”
“Two.”
“Hip?”
“Better.”
He poured water.
