“No.”
His fingers moved across the sheet until they found mine.
“I’m tired.”
“Sleep.”
“Stay.”
“I’m here until they make me leave.”
His mouth curved weakly.
“Then come back.”
“Always.”
The nurses made me leave at ten.
I went home because they said Noah needed uninterrupted sleep and because I had not showered or changed since the previous morning.
The apartment felt wrong.
Marlowe searched behind me when I entered.
“He’s at the hospital.”
The dog stared toward the stairwell.
“I know.”
I fed him, showered, and lay on the bed without sleeping.
At five, I gave up.
By six thirty, I was back at the hospital carrying Noah’s favorite bottled decaf, clean clothes, his journal, and the small green navigation lamp from the hallway.
The nurse objected to the lamp until I explained.
She found an outlet.
When Noah woke, green light touched the lower edge of the wall.
His face softened before he saw me.
“Home lamp.”
“Yes.”
“You stole it.”
“Borrowed.”
He looked clearer.
Still pale.
Still exhausted.
