Chapter 9 #3
I opened the medication bag.
Owen brought water.
Caleb dimmed the room and pulled the curtains halfway.
Noah swallowed the pills without argument.
“Do you feel sick?”
“No.”
“Vision?”
“Fine.”
“Any numbness?”
“Reid.”
“I’m checking.”
“You’re vibrating.”
I stopped.
Caleb touched my shoulder.
“We’ll go.”
“You don’t have to.”
“We’ve already frightened him with the stair machine,” Caleb said. “We’ll be downstairs.”
Owen crouched near the couch.
“Good to have you back, Noah.”
Noah looked at him.
“Thanks.”
“You don’t need to remember us.”
Caleb glanced at Owen, surprised.
Owen continued.
“We remember you. That can be enough until it isn’t.”
Noah’s eye filled.
He nodded.
Caleb pulled Owen toward the door before any of us broke.
Marlowe stayed.
The apartment became quiet.
I set alarms on my phone for medication, food, hydration, and rest.
Noah watched from the couch.
“You made one for water?”
“You forget to drink.”
“I’m looking at water.”
“Looking is not drinking.”
He took the glass and swallowed.
“Happy?”
“Deeply.”
I arranged pillows beneath his arm and behind his back.
His eye closed.
“Too much?” I asked.
“No.”
“You should sleep.”
“I just got here.”
“The apartment will continue existing.”
“What if I wake up and don’t know where I am?”
“I’ll tell you.”
“What if you’re downstairs?”
“I won’t be.”
He opened his eye.
“You have work.”
“Not today.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Caleb is covering.”
“He can’t cover forever.”
“No.”
The fear beneath the conversation emerged.
“What happens when you go back?”
“I’ll be downstairs. The nurse will be here during part of the day. We’ll install an intercom. You’ll have my phone.”
“And at night?”
“I’m here.”
“Where?”
“The spare room.”
Noah looked toward the hallway.
“Not your room?”
“It was our room.”
His face tightened.
“I know.”
“I’ll use the spare.”
“Why?”
“So you don’t feel pressured.”
He looked away.
“That room is mine too.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember it.”
“No.”
“But you do.”
“Yes.”
His fingers moved against the blanket.
“I don’t want you changing everything.”
“I’m trying to make it easier.”
“For me.”
“Yes.”
“What about you?”
“I am not currently the priority.”
“That sounds unhealthy.”
“It’s temporary.”
He gave me a tired, unimpressed look.
“I may have lost six years, but I know what lying sounds like.”
I sat on the edge of the armchair opposite him.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is becoming our official motto.”
A weak smile touched his mouth.
Marlowe rested his chin on the couch cushion.
Noah stroked the dog’s ear.
“I want to see the bedroom.”
“Not today.”
His head lifted.
“You don’t get to decide.”
“Your speech is slurring.”
“I’m tired.”
“Exactly.”
Anger flashed.
I held up both hands.
“You’re right. I don’t decide. I’m asking you to wait until the medication works.”
Noah looked toward the hallway.
The fight left him.
“Okay.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Today later.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Reid.”
“After you sleep, we reassess.”
His eye narrowed.
“That sounded like Dr. Whitcomb.”
“She has infiltrated my vocabulary.”
He sank deeper into the couch.
“Sit here.”
I looked around.
“Where?”
“Floor.”
“Why?”
“Marlowe took the good spot.”
The rug had been removed, leaving bare wood.
I sat anyway, back against the couch.
Noah’s right hand hung near my shoulder.
Neither of us spoke.
The pain medication softened his face gradually.
Marlowe shifted until his body pressed against my leg.
The harbor made its familiar sounds beyond the windows: rigging against masts, water beneath the docks, wind slipping along the side of the building.
Noah listened.
“Is it always noisy?”
“You said it helped you sleep.”
“I did?”
“Yes.”
“I think I like it.”
“I think you do too.”
His fingers touched my hair.
The contact was so light I could have imagined it.
I did not move.
Noah’s hand settled at the back of my head.
The gesture echoed the dream, reversed.
“Reid.”
“Yes?”
“Sing the song.”
I looked over my shoulder.
His eye remained closed.
“You said I sing it badly.”
“I want to check.”
I found the song on my phone and lowered the volume.
The guitar filled the apartment.
When the chorus approached, I deliberately entered too early.
Noah smiled without opening his eye.
“There.”
“What?”
“That.”
His fingers moved once through my hair.
“I knew you would.”
My throat tightened.
“Go to sleep.”
“Stay.”
“I’m staying.”
“All night?”
“If that’s what you want.”
His hand relaxed.
A few minutes later, he slept.
I remained on the floor.
Marlowe curled against my hip.
The daylight faded from the harbor, and the green lamp near the stairs came on automatically, casting a quiet glow into the hall.
Noah did not remember arriving here for the first time.
He did not remember choosing the couch, rescuing the dog, or dancing badly in the kitchen when he thought I wasn’t watching.
But he knew the sound of my mistimed singing.
He knew the lamp.
He knew my hand at his neck.
Somewhere inside him, the path home had not been destroyed completely.
It was overgrown, fractured, and dark.
But it existed.
And for the first time since the accident, Noah had followed a piece of it back to me.