He gives me a small nod—one of those silentI’ve got yougestures—and then he’s gone, the front door closing softly behind him.
Pops is resting on his bed when I check on him. The door to his room is cracked open just enough for me to see him lying on his side, eyes closed, breathing slow and even.
I don’t wake him.
I stand there for a second longer than I should, listening to the rhythm of his breathing, watching the rise and fall of his chest like I can memorize it. Like if I memorize it, I can keep it going forever.
Then I back away quietly and return to the living room.
I sit on the couch, leg stretched out, ice pack balanced carefully over my knee. An old game plays on the TV, the volume low.
A receiver cuts across the middle of the field, sharp and confident.
I swallow.
That used to be me. Not just the running. The certainty.
The way my body used to obey without hesitation, like it trusted me to take care of it.
Now I’m here, counting reps instead of yards, with progress measured in degrees of bend and seconds of balance.
I sit there longer than I should, listening, waiting, trying to convince myself that slowing down doesn’t mean losing everything.
Because for the first time, I’m starting to understand that ignoring things doesn’t make them go away.
And maybe standing still is the only way to really see what matters before it slips out of reach.
6
SLOANE
The first time the hospital called, I didn’t answer.
I watched my phone vibrate on the kitchen counter while I stood at the sink rinsing out my shaker bottle, the water running too long, my hands moving like if I kept them busy I could pretend the sound wasn't happening.
The second time they called, I answered too fast, like maybe speed could change what was waiting for me on the other end.
“Hi, is this Sloane Rhodes?”
My stomach dropped.
“Yes.”
“This is Amanda from Dr. Patel’s office. We received your father’s scan results, and the doctor would like to meet with you and your family in person to go over them.”
In person.
They never want to meet in person for good news.
“Okay,” I say, unable to keep the tremor out of my voice. “When?”
“We have an opening tomorrow at ten a.m. Can you make that work?”
I stare at the fridge, at the calendar magnets—Sloane-the-perfect-daughter—I bought months ago when Pops had his first round of scans after stopping chemo. The little squares. The neat handwriting. The illusion of control.
“Yeah,” I say. “We’ll be there.”
Amanda’s voice softens. “If you have any questions before then?—”
