“Agreed.”
He pointed his spoon at me.
“And no asking every four minutes.”
“Six.”
“Ten.”
“Seven.”
“Fine.”
He napped after breakfast.
While he slept, I washed laundry, cleaned the bathroom, and checked the full clinic portal twice.
No results.
The waiting did not worry me the way it worried Noah. The rapid test results were negative. We had both tested regularly before the accident. Nothing had happened since.
Still, the full results had become more than medical data.
They represented a threshold Noah had chosen.
I wanted the threshold open.
At two, I woke him gently.
He emerged from sleep confused for several seconds, then remembered the plan.
“Pub.”
“Yes.”
“Head?”
“One.”
“Energy?”
“Five.”
“Out of?”
“Enough.”
He dressed in dark jeans for the first time without my help.
It took nearly ten minutes.
He sat on the bed to work the right leg through the denim, paused when his hip protested, then adjusted the angle and succeeded.
A private pride crossed his face.
I pretended not to notice until he stood.
“You look good.”