“What did Noah do?”
“Apparently he still thinks Reid is handsome.”
“I did not say handsome.”
Caleb ignored me. “He called him not difficult to look at.”
Owen nodded thoughtfully. “That is very Noah.”
I lowered myself into the desk chair.
For two hours, I dealt with unpaid invoices, insurance forms, supplier calls, and the mountain of mail Caleb had been stacking in increasingly judgmental piles.
The work steadied me.
At three, I returned to the hospital.
Noah was tired but calm. He let me sit near him while he slept, and when he woke, he asked me to read.
I chose a sailing magazine.
“You hate sailing magazines,” he said.
“You remember that?”
“No. You look annoyed.”
“I prefer practical journals.”
“This is practical.”
“This article is about choosing table linens for a yacht.”
“Read it.”
I did.
The following days developed a rhythm.
Physical therapy in the morning.
Rest.
Speech and cognitive work in the afternoon.
Scans, examinations, medication changes, meals.
Noah stood for five seconds.
Then ten.
He transferred into a wheelchair.
He learned to steady himself when the room tilted.
His headaches remained unpredictable. His language faltered when he was tired. Some evenings, he could not remember what he had eaten at lunch. Other times, he repeated entire conversations from the day before.
He smiled when I arrived.
