Not ill.
The difference should have comforted me more than it did.
Since the accident, exhaustion and illness had learned to wear one another’s clothes.
The rear gate stood open when we reached the yard. Caleb’s truck and Owen’s van occupied their usual places. A compact silver car sat near the office entrance, too clean and unfamiliar to belong there.
I parked beside the apartment stairs and shut off the engine.
Noah did not move.
For a moment, I watched him breathe.
Then I touched his knee.
“We’re back.”
One eye opened.
“That was fast.”
“I’m an exceptional driver.”
“You drive like there’s nitroglycerin in the trunk.”
“You complain every time I brake.”
“I’m delicate freight.”
The workshop door opened.
Owen stepped out holding a clipboard. He spotted us and crossed the wet yard.
“Successful expedition?”
Noah turned toward him. “Is there food?”
“Caleb ordered sandwiches.”
“Then I’m prepared to overlook whatever bad news you’re bringing.”
Owen’s attention shifted to me.
“A reporter came by.”
My hand stayed on the key.
“What sort?”
“The newspaper sort.”
“Noah isn’t a public attraction.”
“You can explain that when he calls.” Owen nodded toward the silver car. “The reporter left. Photographer’s still around, taking pictures of the outside.”
Noah straightened, fatigue receding behind caution.
“Why would they want that?”
