I sat beside him and held his hand.
His bruises had nearly disappeared. The surgical line remained visible through the short regrowth of hair, pale skin broken by small dark marks where staples had been removed. His face looked more like itself every day.
The life behind it remained altered.
I watched him sleep and allowed myself the thoughts I refused while he was awake.
I hated the road.
I hated the driver, though investigators had said he had done everything possible once the load shifted. I hated the company that had failed to inspect the chain. I hated rain on pavement and the flatbed’s weight and the geometry of one bend in the road.
Mostly, I hated my helplessness.
Noah had spent years building independence after leaving Denver. He had been proud of competence, of being useful, of needing little from anyone.
Now strangers helped him bathe.
He needed permission to leave a room.
He had to ask for objects placed three feet away.
And when he woke frightened in the dark, he did not remember the man who had promised to come when called.
Yet he had asked me to stay.
The request was fragile.
I held it carefully.
When he woke near noon, I was reading aloud from one of his technical journals.
“You skipped,” he murmured.
I looked up. “You were asleep.”
“Still heard.”
“You want the section on corrosion rates?”
“Yes.”
“It’s mostly charts.”
“Read.”
I resumed.
His eye remained half-open, resting on my face rather than the page.
After several paragraphs, he interrupted.
“I like your voice.”
My words stopped.
Noah frowned. “Why’d you stop?”
“No reason.”
