“They were a little dark,” my mother protested from the chair by the wall.
“They were black.”
Emma lay still between us. A monitor kept its steady rhythm. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and the lotion my mother rubbed onto Emma’s hands because her skin had gotten so dry. After almost an hour, my mother went home. I stayed, and I could tell that mattered to Noah. He kept glancing at me as though he expected me to find an excuse to leave.
Around seven, I almost did. I stood up. “I’m going to get coffee.”
Noah looked at me immediately. “You said you’d stay.”
“I am staying. I’m just getting coffee.”
“There’s coffee down the hall.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you need to go downstairs?”
I stopped. There was no accusation in his voice, just a question.
