One of the paramedics looks at the other, and I don’t like the look.
“Possible stroke,” he says into his radio. “Right-sided weakness, slurred speech. Onset approximately one seventeen.”
Stroke.
The word keeps echoing in my skull like it’s trying to make space.
They move efficiently—oxygen, blood pressure cuff, a finger prick to check glucose. They roll him carefully, then lift him onto the stretcher.
Sloane scrambles up with them, hands reaching for him like she’s terrified he’ll disappear if she doesn’t keep contact.
“Dad,” she whispers. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
Pops’s eyes find her for half a second.
His mouth tries to smile, but it doesn’t fully happen, but he squeezes her fingers—barely.
It’s enough to make her sob and swallow it back down like she’s punishing herself for being human.
She climbs into the ambulance to ride with him, and I’m right behind them in my truck, hitting dial on Cam’s number.
It rings a few times before a mid-yawn Cam answers, “Logan?”
“Hey, you need to meet us at the hospital. Something happened with Pops. We had to call 9-1-1, and I’m following them there right now. Sloane is riding with him.”
I hear shuffling and a mumbled voice before Cam says he’s on his way and hangs up.
I pull into the parking lot, cutting left when the ambulance pulls into the bays on the right. Getting out of my truck, I almost forget that I don’t have my brace on, my knee sending small shocks of resistance that are quick to remind me as I make my way across the lot.
The ER is a blur of voices, lights that are too bright, and urgency that doesn’t care who you are. I find Sloane, but they wheel Pops away fast.
“Stroke team’s ready,” someone says.
They don’t ask if we’re okay. They don’t soften their voices. They just move, because this is what they do—save what can be saved while the clock is still kind.
Sloane tries to follow, and a nurse gently blocks her with an arm.
“We’re taking him for imaging,” she says. “We’ll update you as soon as we can. The waiting room is to the left.”
Sloane’s face crumples. “I need to be with him.”
“I know, honey, but we can’t let you back there with him right now,” the nurse says, softer. “I promise we’re taking care of him.”
Promise.
That word doesn’t mean anything here.
We wait.
Time stretches into something warped and unrecognizable.
Sloane paces. Back and forth. Back and forth. Hands rubbing together like she’s trying to scrub the fear off her skin. She doesn’t sit. Doesn’t drink the water a nurse offers her.
“Sloane, you need to sit down,” I say quietly after a while.
“I can’t.”
“I know,” I reply, “but you’re going to pass out if you don’t.”
