Noah lived in a six-story building, no elevator, just stairs. Jay had climbed them enough times now to know them by heart. The right step on the third floor still groaned under his foot; the light on the landing flickered, caught, and steadied. On the fourth floor, a door let out a draft and the scent of someone's dinner. Garlic and onion, tonight.On the fifth floor, Jay knocked. Two short raps.He heard footsteps, then the clink of a lock. Noah's mom opened the door. She hadn't changed from work, dark pants, pale blouse, a button undone at the top. Her hair was loose, and she carried that worn-out look that never seemed to go away, not a temporary tired but a settled kind, the kind you accept because it's not leaving.She looked at Jay, just for a beat. Then, without a word, stepped aside and opened the door wide enough for him to come in."He's in his room," she said. "I'll make tea."Jay stepped past the threshold. "You don't have to—""I know I don't." She was already moving towa
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