When Sloane comes back, her hair is damp and pulled into a ponytail. She looks cleaner, but not lighter. She’s already dressed, ready to go, like being prepared is her only kind of control.
“Let’s go,” she says.
I nod and reach for my bag. I pull the brace out and start strapping it on.
Sloane’s eyes flick to it. “You don’t need that.”
“I know,” I say, keeping my tone even. “Just…easier if I’m walking a lot.”
She watches me for a beat, then nods once like she accepts the excuse.
She doesn’t call me out for what it really is.
If I brace the knee, maybe I can brace everything else.
We walk out into the mild morning. The air is soft, not cold. The sun is already warm on the driveway.
The drive to the hospital is quiet. Sloane stares out the window like she’s watching the world pass and not seeing any of it.
Halfway there, her hand moves.
She doesn’t look at me when she reaches across the console.
Her fingers hook around mine for a second.
Not a hold.
A check-in.
Like tapping the wall in a dark room.
My thumb rubs the side of her finger once; it’s instinctive.
She doesn’t pull away.
That’s all.
It’s enough to make my chest tighten anyway.
At the hospital, we park, get out, and the building hits me the way it always does—glass, white light, antiseptic air you can almost taste.
In the parking lot, Sloane’s steps slow just a little.
Her hand finds mine again, quick and quiet.
We walk together until the automatic doors.
Then she lets go first.
Not cold. Not rejecting.
Just…practical.
We go inside.
Cameron is already there, sitting rigidly by Pops’s bed like he’s been holding his breath for hours. He stands when he sees Sloane, eyes scanning her face with that protective, relentless focus he’s always had.
Pops is awake, propped up against pillows. His left side still looks wrong—arm resting too still, the corner of his mouth lagging.
