The question filled the room.
I had no answer.
His breathing became ragged.
A tear slipped from beneath his closed eyelid.
“I look at him,” Noah said to Leah, pointing toward me without opening his eyes. “And he knows my face. He knows what I eat and where I sleep and how I hold a cup. I don’t know anything.”
Leah began to cry.
I remained at the foot of the bed because touching him would have been for me.
“You know you’re angry,” I said.
He drew a broken breath.
“You know this is unfair.”
His hand lowered from his forehead.
“You know you’re frightened.”
He opened his eye.
“And you know you don’t have to protect either of us from that.”
His face twisted.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
“I keep hurting you.”
“You’re injured. That isn’t the same thing.”
“I see your face.”
“I’m responsible for my face.”
Despite everything, a rough laugh escaped him.
Then pain cut through it.
He folded toward his uninjured side with a groan.
I called the nurse.
Medication came. The lights went lower. Leah closed the album.
Noah’s body slowly loosened as the pain receded.
Leah bent and kissed his forehead.
“I have to leave before dinner,” she whispered. “But I’ll call tomorrow.”
His eye opened sluggishly.
