Not in the hospital parking lot.
Not with Pops watching.
Not with Cameron barely holding himself upright.
So I do what I’ve always done.
I lock it down.
I put one foot in front of the other.
And I drive us home like my world hasn’t just been given an expiration date.
9
LOGAN
They come home looking like they’ve been out in the cold too long.
Not the January kind that reddens cheeks and makes your hands ache.
The other kind.
The kind that settles into your bones and changes your face.
Cameron walks in first, shoulders tight, jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscle jumping in his cheek. His eyes are glassy—not from tears, not yet, but from holding them back with pure stubbornness. Like crying would mean admitting it’s real.
Pops follows, moving slower than he did this morning. Careful with his steps. Careful with his balance, his skin looking a shade paler under the hallway light.
Sloane comes in last.
If I didn’t know her, I might think she’s fine.
Ponytail perfect. Posture straight. Chin lifted. The same composed face she’s worn through a year of scans and waiting rooms.
But her eyes…
Her eyes are wrong.
Too distant. It’s as if she is staring through the walls rather than at them.
She doesn’t look at me when she passes the living room.
She doesn’t look at anyone.
“Hey,” I say quietly anyway.
No one answers.
Cameron drops his keys into the bowl by the door, seemingly angry at the sound they make. He doesn’t take his coat off. He doesn’t sit. He just paces two steps into the kitchen and back like the house suddenly has too many corners.
Pops lowers himself into the recliner with a controlled exhale, the kind of exhale that saysthis is hardwithout letting the words form.
Sloane disappears down the hall.
Her bedroom door clicks shut.
The sound is soft.
