She drops into the chair beside me, folding inward like something finally gave way. I keep my hands to myself, even though every instinct I have screams to reach for her.
The doors swing open, and Cameron barrels in, breathless, hoodie thrown on over sleep pants. He takes one look at Sloane and pulls her into his chest without a word.
“What happened?” he asks, voice rough.
I explain what happened and what we know, which isn’t much.
He nods, jaw tight, eyes already scanning the hallway like he can intimidate bad news into staying away.
When the doctor finally comes out an hour later, it’s not the worst news, but it isn’t good either.
He’s a man in scrubs with tired eyes and a voice that’s practiced at delivering reality.
“We did a CT scan to check for bleeding,” he says. “There’s no hemorrhage. That’s good.”
Sloane’s breath shudders. “So—so what is it?”
“We believe he’s had an ischemic stroke,” the doctor continues. “A blood clot in his brain. We’re doing additionalimaging to see exactly where and how significant. Right now, he’s stable.”
Stable.
The word lands like a fragile gift.
My muscles finally unclench enough to realize how hard I’ve been holding myself together.
Sloane grips Cameron’s hoodie like she might fall through the floor. “Can you fix it?”
The doctor’s expression shifts—gentle but careful. “We’re treating him. We’re supporting his blood flow, controlling blood pressure, and we’ll have neurology evaluate him. Because of his overall medical picture and the timing, certain interventions may not be appropriate. But he’s stable. He was awake briefly and responding, but he’s resting now, which is what he needs.”
Sloane’s throat works. She nods once, like she’s trying to accept words that don’t fit in her body.
“They’re admitting him overnight for monitoring,” the doctor says. “We’ll reassess in the morning and go from there. Only one person can stay with him tonight, as per hospital policy. It’s very important that his body allows itself to rest to make sure the situation doesn’t get worse or happen again.”
We thank the doctor, and he walks back toward the rooms.
Only one person can stay here with him.
Cameron looks at Sloane. “You’re going home.”
She shakes her head immediately. “No.”
“You haven’t slept,” he says gently. “He’s going to be monitored. He’s safe. You know I’ll call you if anything happens.”
“I don’t care,” she spits, voice cracking.
Pops settles it when they finally let us see him—voice weaker, speech still thick, but eyes clear enough to aim the words right where he wants them.
“Kiddo,” he murmurs, trying for stern and landing somewhere tender. “Go home.”
Sloane’s lips tremble. “No.”
Pops’s good hand lifts slowly, shaking. He reaches for her cheek and barely makes it.
“I’ll be right here after you get some rest,” he says. Her throat works. She nods once, brittle.
Cameron turns to me. “Take her home. Please.”
I nod and start walking toward the parking lot, Sloane following behind quietly.
