Pops is waiting by the front door when I pull into the driveway.
Walker in front of him. Hands wrapped around the handles like he’s anchoring himself to the world.
He’s thinner than the last time I let myself really look—like his body is burning fuel faster than he can replace it. His cheeks are a little more hollow, jawline softened by fatigue, eyes still bright but ringed with exhaustion. There’s a slight slackness to his features now, like holding expressions takes effort.
He’s wearing a beanie, even though it’s not really that cold—just crisp—and it makes his face look smaller.
My throat tightens.
I park and hop out, moving fast.
“Hey,” I say.
Pops smiles faintly. “Hey, kid.”
I reach for the walker. “You sure you wanna go out?”
Pops gives me a look. “I’m not dead yet.”
The words punch me in the chest.
I force a crooked smile. “Okay. Where are we going?”
Pops’s gaze flicks toward the street. “You’ll see.”
That’s not an answer.
My instinct is to push.
I don’t.
Because Pops doesn’t ask for things lightly anymore.
I help him down the step, slow and careful, then open the passenger door. Pops settles in with a tired exhale.
I fold the walker and place it in the back seat.
As I slide behind the wheel, my stomach knots.
Sloane isn’t home. Cameron’s at CSU.
It’s just me and Pops.
And whatever he’s about to do.
We pull out of the driveway, the house shrinking in the rearview.
Pops stares out the window like he’s watching the world pass with a kind of quiet acceptance I can’t stand.
After ten minutes, I glance over. “You okay?”
Pops hums. “Mhm.”
Not yes. Not no.
Just Pops trying not to make this harder.
We drive in silence until the neighborhood shifts—cleaner landscaping, calmer streets, the kind of place people go when they need quiet.
