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REID

Dr. Whitcomb cornered me during morning rounds three days later.

“You look worse,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Noah sat in bed while a resident tested the strength in his right arm. He watched us from across the room, which meant I could not answer honestly.

Dr. Whitcomb lowered her voice.

“When did you last sleep for more than three hours?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did you last spend a full night at home?”

“I go home.”

“At what hour?”

“Late.”

“And return?”

“Early.”

She folded her arms.

I recognized the posture from every meeting in which she intended to wait longer than I did.

“I’m fine.”

Noah spoke from the bed.

“He says that when he’s not.”

I looked at him.

The resident smiled.

Dr. Whitcomb raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

Noah’s expression remained grave, though a hint of amusement touched his mouth.

“You’ve known me for less than two weeks,” I said.

“You say it a lot.”

The resident finished the examination and left.

Dr. Whitcomb stepped closer to the bed.

“Today is a difficult day, Noah.”