Pops emerges.
He looks paler. More tired—like the building stole something from him.
But his shoulders are a fraction looser too.
Like he set something down.
He makes it halfway to the car before he pauses, breathing heavier.
I move instantly. “Pops?—”
He lifts a hand. “I’m fine.”
I swallow the argument. He reaches the passenger seat and lowers himself carefully with a long exhale. I fold his walker and load it back in the car, hands still shaking.
Then I slide into the driver’s seat and just…sit.
My throat burns.
My eyes sting.
I don’t look at him because I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I do.
Pops breaks the silence first.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Now we talk.”
My stomach twists. “About what?”
Pops looks out the windshield. “About what comes next.”
Panic spikes. “No.”
“Logan,” he says gently.
I clench my jaw. “I don’t want?—”
“I know,” Pops whispers. “Neither do I.”
That confession punches the air out of my lungs.
Pops turns his head toward me, eyes steady. “But refusing to name it doesn’t stop it. It just makes you lonely in the meantime.”
My chest caves.
I stare at the steering wheel like it can save me.
Pops continues, voice quiet, “Sloane won’t talk about it.”
“Yeah,” I manage.
“She thinks if she refuses the conversation, I can’t leave,” Pops says. His mouth twitches sadly. “If stubbornness cured cancer, she’d have me doing wind sprints.”
A broken laugh tries to escape. It dies in my throat.
Pops’s voice grows softer. “When I’m gone…she’s going to turn grief into a full-time job.”
I nod because I can already see it—lists, tasks, tight control until she snaps.
