“About the accident?”
“He couldn’t describe them. He woke disoriented and pulled against his arm brace.”
“Did he hurt himself?”
“No new damage. He’s sore.”
I sat because my knees had begun to weaken.
“How long has he been having nightmares?”
“A few nights.”
“No one told me.”
“He asked us not to.”
I looked at her.
“He asked?”
“He said you already worried too much.”
Something inside me twisted.
The nurse replaced the pillowcase.
“He watches the clock in the morning,” she said.
“What?”
“Before you arrive.”
I stared.
“He knows roughly when you come. He listens for the elevator.”
The nurse gave me a knowing smile and pushed the cart away.
I sat with that information until the door opened.
Noah returned in a wheelchair, his injured side carefully supported. His hair was damp. Someone had shaved the untouched side of his face, though the skin around the healing cuts remained uneven.
He looked exhausted.
He also looked at me immediately.
“There you are,” he said.
The words were ordinary.
They reached me like sunlight.
I stood.
An orderly and I helped transfer him to the bed. Noah’s good leg trembled. By the time he settled against the pillows, sweat shone across his forehead.
I adjusted the blanket.
