Now everything feels like it has consequences.
The transport team rolls Pops up the walkway slowly. The wheels make a soft rattling sound over the concrete that I will probably hear in my sleep for the rest of my life.
When they stop at the threshold, they transfer him carefully—hands under his shoulders, hips, knees. Pops grimaces, not from pain exactly, but from the indignity of being handled.
I hate the way his right hand grips the armrest like he’s trying to anchor himself to something.
I hate the way his left hand doesn’t.
He notices me staring and lifts his brow slightly, like he’s calling me out without words.
Don’t do that, kiddo.
Don’t look at me like I’m already gone.
I blink hard and step closer, forcing my face into something steadier.
“Hi,” I say softly.
Pops’s gaze softens. “Hey, kiddo.”
And that’s it.
Two words, and my throat burns.
The wheelchair moves forward. The hallway is clear now—Logan did it fast—and the transport team navigates the narrow space with practiced ease.
Our house has never felt this…tight.
Like the walls are too close. Like the ceiling is lower. Like the air is thicker.
Hospice equipment sits staged in the living room—folded walker, packs of supplies, a box of gloves, a transfer belt, a shower chair leaned neatly against the wall. It’s all arranged like it belongs here.
It doesn’t.
Pops’s eyes flick to it as they roll past, and something sharp flashes across his face—anger, maybe, or grief, or both.
Then he covers it with humor because that’s what he does when he’s scared.
“Looks like we’re starting a medical supply store,” he says.
A strangled sound makes its way out of Cameron. “Seriously?”
Pops’s smile tugs crooked. “What? It’s good business.”
Logan reappears in the hallway, hands empty, posture careful. He meets Pops’s eyes and nods—respectful, quiet.
Pops nods back like he’s grateful Logan’s here even if he won’t say it out loud.
They roll Pops into his room.
The bed looks too normal. Too soft. Too much like sleep and not enough like life. There’s a fresh set of sheets on it, the ones I always put on when I want to pretend I’m in control—white with a faint blue stripe.
The transport team transfers him again, slow and methodical.
Pops’s jaw clenches, breath sharp, but he doesn’t complain. He just takes it like he’s taking a hit he didn’t see coming.
Once he’s settled, one of the guys explains the basics—call buttons, transfer instructions, what to do if he feels dizzy or weak. Pops listens, eyes half-lidded, like he’s bored.
