“I’m still me.”
I crouched beside him.
“Yes.”
“Not exactly the same.”
“No.”
“But still me.”
I kissed his temple.
“Always.”
At Dr. Whitcomb’s appointment the following morning, Noah told her about the basin before she finished asking how he had slept.
She listened without interrupting.
“And how did Reid manage?” she asked.
Noah looked at me.
“He checked the fuel system twice, the life jackets three times, and the weather approximately every six minutes.”
“Reasonable,” she said.
“He drove more slowly than floating debris.”
“Also reasonable.”
“I hated it.”
“You smiled through the entire circuit,” I said.
“That is unrelated.”
Dr. Whitcomb made a note.
“The outing was emotionally meaningful and physically controlled. Good.”
Noah leaned back with satisfaction.
“See?”
“She did not authorize open-water racing.”
“I didn’t request it.”
“You considered it.”
“I consider many things.”
Her attention shifted to the shutdown episode.
Noah described it as being trapped behind thick glass.
He could hear voices. See movement. Understand fragments.
