Chapter 7 #2
Noah touched the side of his head.
“Ceiling came down.”
“The van shifted while we were stabilizing it.”
Aaron’s voice roughened.
“You were protected. Nothing else hit you.”
“You sound sure.”
“I was beside you.”
Noah looked at him for the first time with something other than distance.
“Thank you.”
Aaron’s eyes lowered.
“It’s my job.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t thank you.”
“No.”
Aaron swallowed.
“No, it doesn’t.”
Mara opened a slim folder.
“The mechanical investigation is complete,” she said. “The front restraint on the load failed because of internal corrosion. It wasn’t visible during the driver’s inspection. When the trailer moved across the wet grade, the secondary lock tore free.”
“The driver didn’t do it?”
“There’s no evidence of recklessness, impairment, or excessive speed.”
Noah leaned back against the pillow.
“Who is he?”
“Elias Grant. He has driven commercially for thirty-two years. He hasn’t returned to work.”
“Why not?”
Mara hesitated.
“He’s having difficulty getting behind the wheel.”
Noah looked toward the broken watch.
“He wants to see me.”
It was not a question.
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“He asked whether contact would be appropriate. We told him it had to be your decision.”
I watched Noah’s face.
He had been awake too long. His eyelid had begun to droop, and his words were losing their edges.
“You don’t have to decide now,” I said.
He ignored me.
“Was he hurt?”
“Bruising,” Mara said. “Nothing serious.”
“Was anyone else?”
“No.”
He breathed out.
“Tell him he can come.”
I leaned forward. “Noah.”
“I want to see him.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“Not today.” He looked at Mara. “Another morning.”
She nodded. “We’ll arrange it through the ward.”
Aaron closed the case, leaving it on the table.
Before he left, Noah stopped him.
“The green light.”
Aaron turned.
“Was it moving away?”
“For a while, yes. I had to climb back out when the van shifted.”
Noah’s jaw tightened.
“Then it came back.”
Aaron held his gaze.
“I told you I would.”
Something passed through Noah’s expression.
Recognition, not of the man, but of a promise surviving the dark.
“Okay,” he whispered.
After they left, the room stayed silent.
Noah looked at the case.
I waited for him to choose.
Eventually he reached for the keys.
They were attached to a brass tag shaped like a narrow boat.
Our address had been stamped on one side.
On the other were two words.
COME HOME.
He read them.
“Did you give me this?”
“No. Leah did, after you lost your keys twice in one month.”
“That sounds like me?”
“It sounds like the version of you who refused to put them in the same place.”
He turned the tag over.
The house key was bent.
The key to the van had snapped near the teeth.
Noah set them down and opened the work notebook.
His handwriting filled the pages in dark block letters: measurements, wiring diagrams, customer names, lists of parts. Near the center, he found a grocery list written sideways in the margin.
Coffee.
Dog food.
Limes.
Reid’s impossible cereal.
He pointed.
“What makes cereal impossible?”
“It has dried fruit.”
“That’s normal.”
“You called it bird feed.”
“Maybe you were right.”
I smiled.
Noah did not.
He touched the handwriting with one finger.
“I wrote this.”
“Yes.”
“I know my handwriting.”
“That’s good.”
“But I don’t remember writing it.”
“No.”
He closed the notebook.
The phone was damaged but intact. A crack split one corner. The protective case had warped from heat.
“It may still work,” I said.
“Did you look through it?”
“No.”
“You could have.”
“It’s yours.”
His gaze lifted.
“I don’t know the code.”
“I do.”
The admission sounded intimate in a way I had not expected.
“What is it?”
I told him.
He stared at me for a moment, then tried it.
The phone remained dead.
“I brought a charger last week,” I said. “It’s in the drawer.”
Noah nodded.
He moved to the broken watch next.
His fingers traced the leather strap.
“Yours?” he asked.
“Originally.”
“You gave it to me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Anniversary.”
“What year?”
“Three years together.”
He examined the stopped hands.
“It was on me?”
“They found it beneath the seat.”
“Did I wear it every day?”
“Almost.”
“Why?”
“You said it made you look responsible.”
His mouth shifted.
“Did it?”
“No.”
That earned me a breath of laughter.
Something thin and folded lay beneath the notebook.
Noah pulled it free.
It was a strip of photographs from a booth at the Greyhaven winter market.
Four frames.
In the first, we faced the camera with exaggerated seriousness.
In the second, Noah had turned toward me.
In the third, his mouth was pressed to my cheek while I laughed.
In the fourth, we were kissing.
Not posed.
Not careful.
His hand was buried in my hair.
The strip shook between Noah’s fingers.
I remembered the night.
December rain.
Mulled cider he hated.
His insistence that we squeeze into the booth even though my knees struck the wall.
He had kept the photographs in his notebook because he said his wallet was already full.
Noah stared at the last frame.
“I look like I know you.”
The words were almost inaudible.
“You did.”
“He looks happy.”
“You were.”
“He isn’t me.”
I said nothing.
Noah’s eye filled.
“I know that’s my face. I know those are my hands. But I look at him and he feels like someone who stole my body.”
My chest tightened.
“He didn’t steal anything.”
“He got you.”
“I’m still here.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
His voice broke.
“He got to want you. He got to know what that felt like.”
I moved closer, stopping beyond reach.
“Noah.”
“He got a home. He got friends. He got normal stupid grocery lists.”
His breathing sharpened.
“And I get photographs of him enjoying it.”
I wanted to take the strip away.
I wanted to destroy every image that hurt him and fill the space with softer truths.
Instead, I let him hold it.
“This is cruel,” he said.
“Yes.”
The answer startled him.
I met his gaze.
“What happened to you is cruel. Being shown evidence of a life you can’t remember is cruel. You don’t have to pretend otherwise for me.”
He wiped at his eye with the heel of his hand.
“I keep thinking I should be grateful.”
“You can be grateful to be alive and furious about what was taken.”
“What if it never comes back?”