Straightened the stack of mail.
Opened a cabinet and closed it.
I watched him.
“What remains?”
He folded his arms.
“From what?”
“The fear.”
His gaze moved toward the windows.
“Some.”
“Tell me the shape.”
“I picture you old.”
“That is rude.”
“You still have the beard.”
“Better.”
“You’re sitting beside a bed.”
My chest tightened.
“I’m in it.”
I waited.
“I don’t know you.”
He swallowed.
“You keep telling me stories, and I keep asking why a stranger knows so much.”
I crossed the kitchen.
Noah’s arms remained folded until I gently drew one free and took his hand.
“What do I do in the picture?”
“You stay.”
“Then trust him.”
“Who?”
“The old man with the beard.”
His eye filled.
“He knows what he promised.”
