Final.
My chest tightens with the instinct to follow—to knock, to ask, to do something.
But Cameron’s pacing gets faster, and the air in the room shifts in a way that pulls me away from her door and toward him instead.
Because Cameron looks like a fuse.
And I’ve known him long enough to recognize the moment right before he blows.
He rakes a hand through his hair, then drags it down his face like he’s trying to wipe off whatever the hospital put on him.
“Cam,” I say carefully.
He stops and turns, eyes landing on Pops in the recliner first—quick, protective—then flick to me.
“What?” he snaps, then immediately softens like he hates himself for snapping. “Sorry. I just?—”
His throat works, and he can’t get the rest out.
Pops’s voice is calm. Too calm. “Cameron.”
Cameron’s shoulders rise on a sharp breath. “They want comfort care,” he blurts, like if he says it fast enough it won’t hurt as much. “They’re talking about hospice.”
The words hit the room and hang there.
Comfort care.Hospice.
Translation: there’s no more plan where you win.
Pops doesn’t flinch. He rubs his temple once, slowly, like he’s pressing down on the noise in his head and the noise in the world at the same time.
“We’ll talk,” Pops says quietly.
Cameron shakes his head hard. “Not in here.”
Pops’s gaze lifts to him. Steady. “Cam?—”
“I can’t,” Cameron says, voice breaking at the edges. “I can’t do this in the living room like it’s a fucking…TV show.”
He turns toward the door like running is the only thing he knows how to do with pain.
My body moves before my brain catches up.
“Cam,” I say, pushing up with my crutches, leg protesting. “Wait.”
He doesn’t stop, so I follow him out the door and down the walkway.
The sky is a washed-out winter gray, like the world can’t be bothered to commit to a mood. Then again, it fits the feeling of despair that seems to be trying to settle over all of us.
Cameron stops at the edge of the driveway and stares out at nothing.
He looks bigger out here, framed by the open air, but also…younger. Like a kid who just got told his dad isn’t invincible.
He shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels.
“Talk to me,” I say, keeping my voice low.
Cameron’s laugh is sharp and ugly. “About what? About how they said it like it was nothing?”
