“You all right?”
“Tired.”
“The nurse said you had a bad night.”
His eye shifted away.
“You didn’t need to tell them not to tell me.”
“You worry.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want more.”
“You are not adding to anything.”
His mouth tightened.
Dr. Whitcomb entered behind the orderly.
“No therapy today,” she said. “Rest, fluids, minimal stimulation.”
Noah nodded.
“He should probably have a quiet morning,” she told me.
“I can leave.”
“No.”
The word came from Noah.
We both looked at him.
His eye was already closed.
“He can stay,” he said. “Quiet.”
I forgot how to breathe.
Dr. Whitcomb’s gaze moved between us.
“Quiet,” she repeated.
“I can do quiet.”
Noah’s right hand moved over the blanket until it found mine.
His fingers closed.
“Stay.”
“I will.”
Dr. Whitcomb left us.
Within minutes, Noah was asleep.
