Past the living room, where there’s a half-empty mug on the coffee table that no one has touched since yesterday.
Past the spot by the wall where hospice supplies still sit, neat and practical, like the house is still pretending they’ll be needed for him.
At the front door, Cameron pauses.
He looks back at the hallway once.
Just once.
And something passes over his face—fast and private.
Then he opens the door.
The sunlight hits us like an insult.
Warm. Bright. Normal.
As if the world didn’t end.
Sloane flinches slightly, like the light is too much.
Cameron leads the way to his truck.
I open the back door automatically, then stop.
Sloane is standing there, looking at the car like it’s a vehicle and also a coffin and also a time machine she doesn’t want to climb into.
Cameron’s voice is gentle, for once. “Slo.”
She breathes in like she has to remind her lungs how to work.
Then she moves.
She slides into the front seat—passenger—where she always sits. Where Pops used to tease her for controlling the music.
Cameron gets in the driver’s seat.
I get in behind Sloane, because it feels wrong to be anywhere else.
The door shuts.
The car becomes its own small world—tight, quiet, humming with grief.
Cameron starts the engine.
For a moment, no one speaks.
Then Sloane’s voice, barely there. “I don’t want to go.”
Cameron’s hands tighten on the wheel. His voice cracks. “Me neither.”
Silence again.
Sloane stares out the windshield like if she looks hard enough, the building will disappear.
I can see her reflection faintly in the glass—eyes too big, mouth too tight.
I reach forward slowly, carefully.
