“The collision date is coming up. They want a recovery feature.”
“It hasn’t been a year,” I said.
“Four months,” Owen replied. “Apparently any repeated date can become an anniversary when the Sunday section needs material.”
I looked at Noah.
He had become very still.
“We can refuse,” I said.
“No one asked me.”
“I’m asking now.”
He rubbed two fingers against his temple.
“Not today.”
“Then the answer is no.”
“Maybe later. Another day.”
Owen nodded. “That’s what I told them. Reporter said he’d phone tomorrow.”
“Name?”
“Elliot Shaw. Greyhaven Ledger.”
I knew the paper.
Regional circulation. Harbor development disputes. School sports. Council meetings. Fishing conditions. Occasional profiles of local business owners and families who had survived something newsworthy.
Before the collision, I would have called it harmless.
Harmless had become a word I no longer trusted.
Noah released his seat belt.
“I should attempt the stairs before my legs forget how.”
“I’ll carry you.”
“No.”
“You’re falling asleep upright.”
“I can walk.”
The protest had no strength behind it.
He planted both feet on the pavement and rose.
His first step wavered.
I moved beside him.
“No debate. Put your arm around me.”
