Chapter 9 - Noah’s POV

I woke up at five forty-three having slept approximately never and decided that was fine. Fine was a word I was getting very comfortable with. Fine covered a lot of ground if you didn’t look at it too closely.

I made his coffee.

Six twenty-eight. Right side of the desk. Two inches from the corner. I had done it enough times now that my hands just did it without asking my brain for input, which was good because my brain was currently occupied with the small matter of whether I was about to get fired.

I knocked. Opened the door. Set the cup down.

“Good morning,” I said.

Silence. Normal. Expected.

I turned to leave.

“Mr. Carter.”

Everything in me went very still. I turned back around with my face arranged into something I hoped looked like calm professionalism and not the internal chaos of a man who had not slept and had been rehearsing this moment since four am.

“Sir,” I said.

“Henderson’s office,” he said. “Call them at nine. Reschedule for Friday.”

I stood there.

He was behind his desk, hands flat on the surface, face giving me absolutely nothing. Not angry. Not satisfied. Not anything I could read or use or prepare for. Just Damien Cole at six twenty-eight in the morning, already three steps ahead of a conversation I hadn’t finished processing.

“Friday,” I said.

“Is that a problem.”

Not a question. Never really a question.

“No,” I said. “I’ll have it confirmed by nine thirty.”

He said nothing else.

I waited because I am apparently a person who waits for things that are not coming and then I left and walked back down the hall and sat at my desk and put both hands flat on the surface and thought okay. Okay. He hasn’t fired me yet. That’s something. That’s a thing that is happening.

I called Henderson’s office at nine exactly. Used my voice that sounds like I have everything under control. Had a confirmed Friday slot by nine twenty-two, which honestly felt like a personal victory on the level of surviving something.

I sent Damien a one line update. Henderson confirmed. Friday. Three o’clock.

He responded in four minutes.

Fine.

I stared at it for longer than was dignified.

Fine. One word. No texture. No information. The conversational equivalent of a closed door and I was standing outside it trying to hear through the wood.

I went back to work.

The day moved. Files, calls, lunch that he ate without comment, an afternoon of tasks he delivered through the intercom like I was a speaker system and not a person. I completed everything correctly and on time and with zero drama because drama was a luxury and I was not in a position to be luxurious right now.

At three he told me to update the Henderson prep file by Wednesday evening.

Not Thursday. Wednesday. Because sure, why not. I had nothing else going on. Just the small matter of sixty percent of my brother’s medical bill that I needed to find in seven days but absolutely, Wednesday evening, no problem at all.

“Wednesday evening,” I said, like a completely normal person.

At six Dr. Reeves called.

I took it in my room with the door closed and my voice very steady, which is a skill I have developed through extensive practice and also desperation.

Forty percent. The hospital assistance program covered forty percent.

Which meant sixty percent did not cover itself.

I wrote everything down. Forms, timelines, documentation. Neat and organised the way I kept Damien’s files because if I stopped being organised about it I was going to have to actually feel it and I did not have time to actually feel it.

“How are you holding up?” Dr. Reeves asked.

I looked at the wall.

“Fine,” I said.

I hung up and sat there doing the math I had already done fourteen times and getting the answer I always got and then Caleb sent a voice note and I put my earphones in.

His voice came through small and careful.

Hey. Just wanted to say goodnight. Eli ate dinner today, the whole plate. I made sure. Anyway. Goodnight Noah.

A pause.

I saved you some.

I sat very still for a moment.

Eight years old. He saved me some.

I typed back: Eat it yourself. I mean it.

Three seconds: Already did. It was good.

I put my phone down and stared at the ceiling and did not cry because I was getting extremely good at not crying and also because I had a Henderson file to finish and self pity was not tax deductible.

I worked until midnight.

Somewhere around ten I heard Damien move in his office. Just once. That particular shift of someone who has been very still for a long time. Then nothing.

I kept working.

Wednesday evening, sixty percent, seven days.

I was fine.

I was absolutely fine.