When our shoulders touched, he leaned into the contact.
“Cal?”
“Yes?”
“Always have.”
I turned.
His smile was small.
Certain.
“Always will,” I answered.
Chapter 30
REID
By the time we stepped out of the clinic, Noah had spent the better part of four hours being processed.
One office for identification. Another for consent forms. A third for medical history he could only answer with my help. Then the laboratory, where gloved strangers reduced our bodies to labels, bar codes, swabs, and narrow glass tubes filled with dark blood.
He looked drained enough to fold in half.
He still refused to let me bring the car around.
Rain misted the parking lot, too fine to fall properly and too persistent to ignore. Noah planted the cane, shifted his weight, and followed it with a step. The rhythm deteriorated before we made it halfway across the pavement. Tap. Pause. Step. A longer pause. Another tap.
His shoulders had curled forward. The delay between intention and movement lengthened every few feet.
I opened the passenger door.
“Take a moment.”
“I’ve stopped moving.”
“That isn’t the same as resting.”
He gave me a look that would have carried more force if his eyes had not been half closed. Then he lowered himself into the seat with a controlled exhale and rested his head against the cushion.
The clinic had taken blood, urine, swabs, and whatever remained of his morning energy.
He watched me circle the station wagon.
When I slid behind the wheel, he said, “The man in the laboratory admired your veins.”
“The phlebotomist.”
“He seemed very enthusiastic.”
“He said I was easy to draw from.”
“Exactly. Easy.”
“For the purpose of collecting blood.”
“The qualification came too late. I’m wounded.”
