His eye closed.
He was asleep before I reached the stairs.
Caleb had spread lunch over the break-room table: sandwiches wrapped in paper, soup in cardboard cups, pickles, chips, and enough napkins to suggest he had finally learned from Owen’s inability to eat without creating evidence.
The photographer and the silver car were gone.
Owen passed me a sandwich.
“How exhausted?”
“He may sleep until dinner.”
“Appointments?”
“Neurology. Settlement office. Clinic.”
Caleb paused halfway through opening his soup.
“The settlement is final?”
“Yes.”
“And the personal award?”
“Higher than any of us expected.”
Neither of them asked for the figure.
They had learned quickly that money around Noah required care. Concern could begin to resemble interest. Interest could become expectation. The amount was his, and the reasons for it had cost him too much.
“The business claim is finished as well,” I said. “Funds for the destroyed equipment and vehicle should begin processing soon.”
Owen leaned back.
“So we replace the service van.”
“I don’t know.”
Both men looked at me.
Caleb lowered his spoon.
“We need field capability.”
“We need people coming home alive.”
“No one’s arguing with that.”
“The replacement would need a reinforced partition. Proper cargo restraints. Automatic emergency reporting. Forward and rear cameras. Collision avoidance. Tracking.”
Owen chewed thoughtfully.
“That sounds like a list of requirements, not a refusal.”
“I don’t know whether I can watch someone leave alone.”
Caleb’s expression changed.
