I smiled.
“Soup?”
“Maybe.”
“Bread?”
“One piece.”
“Good.”
He frowned.
“Don’t praise me for eating.”
“Noted.”
I brought the tray to bed.
He managed half the soup and most of the bread while leaning against me.
Then the medication pulled him into a deep sleep.
I texted Caleb that I would remain upstairs.
He replied with one word.
Good.
I lay beside Noah and watched rain blur the harbor.
The newspaper remained folded on the floor.
I did not throw it away.
The article belonged to him.
So did the fear it had awakened.
My job was not to erase either.
Only to stay close enough that neither became the whole story.
By late afternoon, Noah’s headache had dropped to two.
He came into the kitchen in sweatpants and a dark sweatshirt while I stood staring into the refrigerator.
“What are you looking for?”
“Dinner.”
“Is it hiding?”
“Apparently.”
He moved restlessly.
Touched the kettle.
