“Good day.”
“Yes.”
“Future didn’t win.”
“Future is not the enemy.”
“Bad future.”
I brushed his hair back.
“It isn’t here.”
He kissed my jaw.
Then fell asleep before I removed his shoes.
Sunday belonged to recovery.
Noah slept late.
Ate breakfast.
Slept again.
By afternoon, he had enough energy to leave the apartment but not enough for people.
We drove to a quiet park north of Greyhaven where a paved path followed the dunes. The wind was cold enough for jackets, though sunlight warmed the grass.
Noah used the powered chair for distance.
He objected less now.
We spread a blanket near the overlook.
Marlowe lay between us with his nose pointed toward every scent coming from the picnic area.
Noah stretched on his back and took my hand.
For a while, we watched clouds move.
“What happens this week?” he asked.
“Work tomorrow. Priya Tuesday morning. Dr. Whitcomb after.”
“Scans next week.”
“Yes.”
“I hate MRI machines.”
“I know.”
“Every sound feels like construction happening inside my skull.”
“I’ll be in the waiting room.”
“You always are.”
