Beneath the printed number, he had written a note by hand.
No pressure. Noah controls the story.
I wanted to believe him.
I put the card in the top drawer.
For the next three hours, I chose work that required both hands.
A sailboat with an intermittent navigation-light fault. A cracked shore-power inlet. A battery charger installed upside down by someone who considered gravity a negotiable principle.
Physical problems were merciful. They could be tested. Isolated. Repaired.
At four, Noah appeared in the workshop.
He wore soft black pants and a gray sweatshirt. The new walking pole Maeve had given him rested in his right hand. He moved cautiously but no longer looked hollowed out by fatigue.
Owen pointed at the pole.
“Very athletic.”
“It’s a cane.”
“Cork handle.”
“Branding.”
Caleb brought him a cup from the espresso machine.
“Decaf.”
Noah accepted it with suspicion. “You’ve all formed an alliance against joy.”
“How do you feel?” I asked.
“Almost human.”
“Head?”
“Two.”
“Hip?”
“Stiff, not painful.”
“Did you eat?”
“The sandwich was waiting when I woke.”
He came into the office and leaned against the doorframe.
“Anything from the clinic?”
“Not yet.”
He checked his phone.
Then checked it again.
