Then I see the sign.
Funeral home.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel.
My brain stutters.
I glance at Pops, confused and suddenly ice-cold. “Pops…why are we?—”
“Pull in,” he says gently.
My chest tightens. “No.”
Pops turns his head toward me, eyes tired but steady. “Logan. It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” I say, voice cracking.
“It is,” Pops insists softly. “I need to do this. I don’t want Sloane here for it.”
My stomach twists. “She should be?—”
“She shouldn’t,” Pops cuts in—not harsh, just certain. “She’d fight the building.”
That earns a jagged little laugh out of me that tastes like grief.
Pops’s mouth twitches. “I love her for it. But I need someone who’ll let me handle it. I don’t want my kids to have to worry about this when I’m gone. It’ll all be set up.”
My throat burns. “Why me?”
Pops looks at me like it’s obvious. “Because you’re family.”
The word lands like a weight on my ribs.
He nods toward the back seat. “Get my walker. Then give me a couple minutes.”
My hands shake as I park.
I get out, pull the walker from the back, and open his door. Pops grips the handles once I position it.
He stands with quiet effort, and anger surges hot because he shouldn’t have to work this hard just to exist.
“Stay right here,” he says, like he’s the one taking care of me.
I nod once. “Yeah.”
Pops turns and starts toward the building, step by step, walker steady. He doesn’t look back.
The automatic doors slide open, and he disappears inside.
And I’m left in the parking lot, with the sun too bright and the air too normal and my chest too tight.
I don’t know how long it is—five minutes? ten?—but my knee starts to ache from standing.
I don’t move.
Because moving feels like admitting this is real.
Finally, the doors slide open again.
