Noah’s mouth moved.
No sound came.
I felt his body go loose.
“Get her out.”
I barely recognized my own voice.
Caleb and Owen escorted her through the workshop. She continued talking—about lawyers, family rights, the article, how ungrateful Noah had always been.
The roller door swallowed most of it.
I lowered Noah into a chair.
His skin was cold and wet beneath my hands.
“Look at me.”
His right hand pressed against his temple.
“Pain?”
He nodded once.
“What number?”
No answer.
“Can you speak?”
His lips parted.
Nothing.
Fear cut through rage.
I placed my hand at the base of his neck.
Two short whistles.
One long.
His eye found mine.
“Home,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“Need home.”
“I’ve got you.”
He made no protest when I lifted him.
His arms did not automatically circle my neck.
That terrified me.
