Now, we are standing out here, just watching.
No birds. No wind. No neighbors. Like the whole street is holding its breath.
The back doors open.
The lift whirs.
Metal clicks.
And then Pops appears—on a stretcher first, elevated slightly, strapped in like the world doesn’t trust his body to stay upright.
He looks…smaller.
Not in the way he’d hate to hear me say. Not physically, exactly—he’s still built like the man who once paced sidelines with a whistle and a glare and made teenage boys sit up straighter just by existing.
But the hospital has taken something.
The left side of his face is still slack, the corner of his mouth a beat behind. His left arm rests strangely, tucked close, fingers not doing what fingers should. His cheeks look a little hollow,like the weight is sliding off him even though he’s been eating whatever we beg him to.
His eyes find us anyway.
Sharp. Warm. Annoyed.
“Jesus,” he says, voice thick but clear enough to aim. “You’d think I was royalty.”
Cameron exhales, a laugh that sounds like it hurts. “You’re dramatic.”
Pops’s good eye crinkles. “Runs in the family.”
I want to run to him. I want to climb onto that stretcher and press my face into his chest and pretend this is just a weird nightmare I can wake up from.
Instead, I take one step forward and stop.
Because the professionals are already moving. Because there are straps and wheels and rules. Because everything has become controlled.
One of the transport guys smiles politely. “Mr. Rhodes?”
Pops lifts his right hand like a lazy salute. “Present.”
“We’re going to bring you over and transfer you to the wheelchair to get through the doorframe,” the guy says. Calm. Gentle. Efficient.
Pops’s eyes flick to the front door like it personally offended him. “This house was built by cowards.”
Cameron snorts, but his expression flickers, cracks at the edges. “Stop talking.”
“Make me,” Pops mutters, like his body isn’t already doing it.
Logan shifts closer then—not pushing into the center, not taking over. Just stepping into the orbit like he knows where to be without being asked.
“Need me to move anything?” he asks Cameron quietly, practical.
Cameron’s gaze snaps to him, and for a second, I can see the tension there—tight thread pulled between gratitude and fear and everything Cameron doesn’t say out loud.
“Yeah,” Cameron replies finally. “Clear the hallway. The shower chair’s in the way.”
Logan nods once and moves, not limping, not hesitating, just doing. He disappears inside, and my chest tightens with something complicated because this house has always been a place Logan moves through like it’s his too.
That used to feel normal.
