I look up at him, helpless. “They’re terrifying.”
Pops nods. “Good. Sloane needs terrifying friends. They match her energy.”
I swallow, then glance back down at the screen, thumbs hovering.
And Pops is watching me like this is the only thing he wants from me right now: show up, plan something good, give her a day where she can breathe.
I type the words before I can overthink them.
okay. so here’s what we’re going to do…
34
SLOANE
On Wednesday morning, I find Pops in the living room, exactly where I knew he’d be.
The hospital bed sits angled toward the window so he can watch the day happen without needing to be in it. Sunlight spills across the armrest in a warm square, and he’s sitting in the middle of it like he belongs there—blanket over his lap, remote in his good hand, a baseball game playing on low volume, even though I’m pretty sure he hasn’t cared about baseball since Cameron was seven.
The wheelchair is parked beside him like a quiet warning.
He looks smaller than he used to, not in height—Pops will always look like Pops to me in that stubborn, built-like-a-coach way—but in the way his shoulders don’t sit as broad, the way his cheeks have hollowed out even though he’s been eating decently.
His face still droops slightly on the left side. Not dramatic. Just enough that it makes my chest ache when I catch it in a certain light.
He hears me before he sees me.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says, voice warm.
My throat tightens on impact.
“Hey,” I reply, trying to sound normal and landing somewhere close. I cross the room and lean down carefully—because everything about him feels breakable lately—and press a kiss to his forehead.
He smells like laundry detergent and the faintest hint of peppermint from the mints he keeps on the side table, the ones he offers people like it’s a habit and not a comfort.
“How you feeling?” I ask.
Pops gives me a look. “You gonna let me answer honestly?”
I huff. “No.”
He smiles, and even that costs him a little—his mouth pulls unevenly, and for a second, I hate the universe so much I can taste it.
“I’m all right,” he says anyway. “I’ve been worse.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “That’s the most annoying thing about you.”
Pops chuckles and taps the armrest twice like he’s calling a play. “Any plans today?”
That’s when I notice it. The energy in the house feels…off.
Not bad.
Not heavy.
Just strange. Like someone’s moved furniture in a room I know by heart.
And then I hear it—voices in the kitchen, too loud to be Cameron’s, too bright to belong to the last few weeks.
