I looked at him.
He kept his attention on the clamp.
“You’re entitled to be afraid,” he said. “You’re not entitled to build Noah a prison from it.”
Before I could answer, the gate rolled open.
Noah entered first in the powered chair with a large paper bag balanced across his lap. Owen walked beside him, carrying a cardboard tray of drinks and wearing the expression of a man who had survived a minor but prolonged ordeal.
“There were twelve sandwiches,” Owen announced.
Noah looked delighted. “He lost all capacity for reason.”
“I did not.”
“You asked the cashier which bread required the least emotional investment.”
“It was a legitimate concern.”
Caleb took the drink tray from him.
“What did you bring?”
“Turkey and cranberry for Marian. Tuna for Owen. Roast beef for Caleb.” Noah lifted the paper bag slightly. “Vegetable soup for Reid, because he believes lunch should feel punitive.”
I smiled despite myself.
“And yours?”
“Grilled cheese.”
“Successful mission?”
His gaze met mine.
Fatigue shadowed his face, but pride warmed it from within.
“Yes.”
“Headache?”
“Two.”
“Any problems?”
“We crossed a street.”
“I’m aware.”
“I survived.”
“I noticed.”
His mouth softened.
“You watched the gate.”
“Possibly.”
