For a long time, he said nothing.
Rain had dried pale across the windshield in the photograph. One headlight remained intact, absurdly clean beside the crushed hood.
“That was mine.”
“The van?”
“Yes.”
His thumb moved over my hand.
“I remember inside. Not outside.”
“I know.”
“The tree stopped it.”
“Yes.”
He studied the torn door.
“That’s where they cut me out.”
“Yes.”
His breathing remained steady.
I watched his pupils.
Watched for his eye to close.
For the color to leave his face.
Nothing changed except grief.
“It looks smaller than the memory,” he said.
“What does?”
“The van.”
He touched the page.
“Inside, it felt like the whole world.”
My throat tightened.
“Do you need to stop?”
“No.”
He kept looking.
“I understand why everyone thought I’d die.”
I did not answer.
Noah turned toward me.
