Isaiah bought vegetables. He slept. On Saturday he walked Birdie through the river park and did not see Claire, which was both relief and disappointment, twin birds on the same wire. In the afternoon he stood in his kitchen with his phone and wrote six drafts.
Dr. Voss here—no.
Isaiah. Chart's closed on my end. If the rain check still stands, I'd like that coffee. No disinfectant. No pressure if the replay faded.
He stared at no pressure if the replay faded until the words looked like they might bruise. He deleted them and wrote:
Isaiah. Nash's transfer went through. If you still want that non-clinic coffee, I'm free Sunday late morning or Tuesday evening. If timing's bad, rain check can stay a rain check. —IV
He sent it before he could sand it into nothing.
Then he put the phone face down and washed the already clean sink.
Claire saw the message while kneeling on the living room floor trying to convince Nash that the vacuum was not a predator.
Her heart did a stupid leap. She read it three times. Priya, summoned by Claire's sudden silence, read it over her shoulder and whispered, "He used an em dash in a text. Marry the grammar."
"Priya."
"Fine. Reply like a person."
Claire wiped dog hair off her jeans, breathed, and typed:
Claire. Replay hasn't faded. Sunday late morning works. There's a place on Mercer that does oat milk without making it a personality. 11? Nash can do a short walk after if you want Birdie logistics—no pressure either way.
She sent it. Then she sat on the floor and let Nash climb into her lap like a soft, clumsy verdict.
Sunday arrived clear and cool. Claire wore the green sweater because avoiding it would have been its own kind of superstition. She arrived at the Mercer cafe early enough to claim a corner table and late enough not to look staged. When Isaiah walked in—dark jacket, no scrubs, blue nowhere except maybe the memory of tubing—Claire felt the cereal night and the park and the bagel vomit arrange themselves into a single continuous person instead of a series of scenes.
He smiled when he saw her. Not the discharge smile. A civilian smile with sleep still at the edges.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
They ordered. They sat. For the first three minutes they talked about nothing dangerous: the weather's recent personality disorder, Birdie's opinion of squirrels, Nash's ongoing feud with the vacuum. Then Isaiah wrapped both hands around his cup and said, "I should say the unromantic logistical thing up front so it doesn't ambush us."