“Head?”
“Two.”
“Do you want to talk about the final section?”
“Not yet.”
The answer was honest.
That was progress.
He spent another hour beside Owen.
His speech slowed before noon.
He dropped a washer, stared at the floor too long, and finally said he was done.
I walked him to the stairs.
“Lunch?”
“Later.”
“Medication?”
“On time.”
“Call me.”
“I know.”
He went up carrying the folded paper beneath one arm.
At twelve thirty, I brought soup and bread.
The apartment was dark.
Noah lay in bed on his side with Marlowe pressed along his stomach. The newspaper rested on the floor near the nightstand.
His boots had been removed.
His clothes had not.
I sat beside him.
His eye opened.
“Hey.”
“How bad?”
“Four.”
“Did you take the breakthrough dose?”
“Yes.”
“Nausea?”
