“Small steps.”
“Extremely small.”
Mercy entered the inner harbor on Thursday.
We used the temporary demonstration rig from the new cradle. Caleb handled the lines while Owen checked the stern.
The engine caught on the third attempt and settled into a low, familiar rumble.
Noah stood on the dock with both hands wrapped around the grip of his walking pole.
His expression changed at the sound.
Not memory.
Something deeper.
Recognition without narrative.
I boarded first and checked everything.
Nonslip matting.
Seat cushions.
Radio.
Emergency cutoff.
Life jackets.
Then I checked them again.
Noah came aboard with Caleb supporting one side and me the other.
He sat beside the helm.
I took us away from the dock at idle.
The basin lay protected behind the breakwater. The only movement came from the soft wake of a harbor patrol boat. Gray clouds hung low above the masts.
Noah rested one hand on the varnished dashboard.
He closed his eye.
“Too much?” I asked.
“No.”
“Head?”
“One.”
“Fear?”
“Here.”
He took my hand and pressed it against his chest.
