Because going back inside means the countdown again.
It means the binder and the meds and the careful voices.
Logan’s hand squeezes my hip once, gently. “Friday,” he murmurs. “You’re going to win.”
I scoff weakly. “You don’t know that.”
Logan’s mouth twitches. “I know you. That’s enough.”
My throat tightens.
I step back before I do something reckless, like drag him into the dark and forget the world exists.
Logan lets me go without a fight.
He just watches me like he’s trying to memorize my face in this light.
I hug the ball to my chest and head toward the door.
At the threshold, I pause without turning around.
“Logan,” I say quietly.
“Yeah,” he answers immediately.
My voice is barely there. “Don’t disappear on me.”
Silence. Then he says, softer than I’m ready for, “Never.”
I nod once, throat tight, and step back into the house—heart racing, mouth still burning, the weight still there…
But now with something else under it.
Not hope.
Hope feels too fragile.
Just the knowledge that for a few minutes, under the porch light, I wasn’t alone.
25
LOGAN
Pops is awake before I am, which shouldn’t be possible because I slept like someone dropped a truck on my chest.
But the house has its own clock now.
Not the one on the wall with the steady tick. The other one. The one that measures mornings in coughs and shuffling feet and the way the air changes when you realize you’re listening for a sound you hate.
I hear the walker first.
A soft scrape against the hallway floor. Slow. Careful. Like every step is a negotiation his body is losing.
By the time I swing my legs off the bed and grab my brace, he’s already in the kitchen, hands on the counter, shoulders slightly hunched like he’s pretending he’s just…stretching.
He looks up when I enter and gives me a smile that tries to be normal.
It almost works.
