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He turned toward the mirror.

The jeans fit differently after months of lost muscle, but they fit. He wore a cream shirt beneath a dark overshirt and left the top buttons open.

“You look like yourself,” I said.

“Which one?”

“This one.”

He met my gaze in the mirror.

“Good answer.”

I wore black jeans and a blue button-down Noah had chosen from the closet.

He looked me over.

“Those are tight.”

“They fit.”

“Barely.”

“You bought them.”

“The man before had vision.”

I laughed.

He came close and ran one hand over my hip.

“Still good.”

“Dangerous before leaving.”

“Consider it motivation to return.”

At the door, I picked up the walking pole.

Noah looked at it.

Then held out his hand.

No argument.

That worried me until I saw his expression.

He had decided the pole was the price of going somewhere. Not a symbol of failure.

We drove to the Harborside.

The tavern occupied an old cannery building near the public marina. The front room was narrow and dim, but a glassed-in side hall overlooked the docks, and the music there was quieter.

Caleb had reserved a table there.

Even so, the parking lot was uneven.

Noah used the pole and took my arm over the gravel.