“Do not say it.”
“What?”
“That this proves the pole is useful.”
“I was thinking it.”
“Your face is loud.”
Inside, warm air carried the smell of fried onions, cedar smoke, beer, and rain-damp coats.
Noah stopped just beyond the entrance.
People moved in every direction. A server balanced plates. A group near the bar laughed too loudly. Several televisions showed a baseball game.
I touched the base of his neck.
“Too much?”
He breathed.
“Not yet.”
“Side room is through there.”
He nodded.
We moved slowly.
People made space when they saw the pole. Noah noticed and hated it, but he kept walking.
Caleb waved from the far table.
Owen sat beside a woman with dark curls, round glasses, and a rust-colored sweater. She was laughing at something he said, which suggested either great affection or limited standards.
Caleb had brought his wife, Erin, whom Noah knew from photographs and one brief hospital visit he barely remembered.
She stood when we reached the table.
“Noah.”
She did not hug him until he opened his arms.
Then she held him warmly and briefly.
“You look wonderful.”
“I look upright.”
“Also wonderful.”
Caleb pulled out a chair near the wall, the safest position for the pole and the easiest exit.
Owen stood.
“This is Talia.”
The woman smiled.
