I started the engine.
“He praised yours too.”
“No. Mine were cooperative. That implies discernment.”
“A crucial distinction.”
His mouth curved.
Exhaustion loosened his humor, often in directions I could not predict. I had learned to treasure it. A bad joke meant he still had enough of himself available to offer me one.
I pulled away from the curb.
“The rapid test results should appear in the patient portal sometime today,” I said. “The rest may take several days.”
“How many?”
“Possibly four.”
He made a faint sound of outrage. “They filled three tubes.”
“They did.”
“That should be enough material to diagnose illnesses that haven’t been discovered yet.”
“You survived the theft.”
“Physically. Emotionally, the damage may be permanent.”
Rain silvered the windshield. I set the wipers to their lowest speed as traffic crawled through the medical district.
Noah turned his face toward me.
“Did we do this often?”
“Get tested?”
“Yes.”
“Every year.”
“Even after we stopped using condoms?”
“Yes.”
His eyelids rose a little. “Impressively responsible.”
“You arranged the appointments.”
“That sounds right.”
“You also complained about every part of them.”
“Responsibility is not the same as cheerfulness.”
I smiled.
The light ahead turned green, and I eased through the intersection.
