Faith
By three o'clock in the afternoon, Noah looked entirely exhausted.
We were sitting in the sunlit morning room when Dr. Vance’s assistant came in carrying a heavy leather briefcase full of cognitive evaluation charts. Noah’s small shoulders instantly slumped. He pulled his hands into the sleeves of his shirt, staring down at his shoes with a look of pure dread.
He had already completed two hours of speech exercises that morning. His small mind was drained, and I could see the familiar, guarded stillness threatening to settle back over his face.
"It’s time for Noah’s spatial reasoning session, Miss Porter," the assistant announced briskly, checking her gold wristwatch. "Dr. Vance is waiting in the library."
I looked down at Noah. His bottom lip was trembling slightly, his eyes wid
