But what do I need?
More importantly, what does she think I need?
* * *
A loud scream rises through the fog of my unformed dreams. I sit up, heart thudding. For a moment, I swear I’m back in the clink, sharing a bunk bed with a murderer who shrieks in his sleep.
“Braden, did you hear that?” A woman’s head hangs down from the top bunk, and the clouds clear from my groggy brain.
“It wasn’t you?” I reach for her. My voice is raw and barely there.
“No. It came from downstairs.” She puts her finger over her lips. “Listen.”
The sound of frantic footsteps come up the stairs, followed by rattling knocks. I check the alarm clock. It’s well before dawn, around four in the morning.
Sammie climbs down from the top bunk, and we open the door a crack to see who’s coming.
“Nash, wake up. Nash.” It’s Lindsay down below, knocking on the door to the room she doesn’t share with Nash.
She’s obviously trying not to wake anyone else up. But why?
She keeps rattling the door, not too loud, but in a sneaky way. Sobs catch in her throat, and she’s shaking all over.
“We should help her.” I pull on a T-shirt and sweats so I’ll be decent.
“No, wait,” Sammie says. “They might be having a tiff.”
“Oh, Nash, open up,” Lindsay says in a harsh whisper. “He might be dead.”
“Dead?” My heart spikes clear to my throat, and I rush down from the attic. “Lindsay, what’s going on?”
Sammie is right behind me. “Is it Poppy? Is he okay?”
Doors open up and down the hallway. Nash stands at the one Lindsay is knocking on, while Damon appears from one across the hall. Macy and Riley come out of the room they share, and way over at the end, the door to the master bedroom opens.
“He might not be dead, but I can’t wake him.” Lindsay’s hands flutter. “We have to help him.”
“What exactly happened?” My question is lost in the thunderstorm of footsteps all running down the stairs toward the guest room.
“Not so loud,” Lindsay says behind us. “The kids. Let them sleep.”
I’m the first to reach the guest room. The double doors are open, and the lights are on, full bright. Grandpa is lying on the bed with his mouth open and eyes closed.
“Grandpa.” I grab his shoulders and shake. He’s cool, but not cold. I place my fingers on his neck and detect a weak pulse. “Still has a heartbeat. What happened?”
“Don’t touch him,” my father orders. “Jolene, call nine-one-one.”
“Is he breathing?” Damon asks.
“He looks like he’s overdosed,” Sammie says beside me. “Braden, start CPR. I’m going to get my Narcan.”
“Hurry!” I cry after her as if it’s normal for my daughter to carry Narcan, an antidote for opioid overdose.
“Hold it,” Dad says. “We don’t know what’s going on. We need to call for help.”
I straighten my grandfather’s airway and breathe for him. In between breathing, I pump his chest to help his weak pulse. I hope we’re not too late to reverse the effect.
“Where is Erica?” Susanna appears at the doorway, darting a sharp glance at Nash. “Isn’t she supposed to be here?”
