I don’t answer, because he’s not really asking.
He turns his head, eyes shining now. “They said the tumor is back, way more aggressive this time. Multiple spots. They said surgery would do more harm than good. That chemo—radiation—whatever…it might buy him a little time, but it’s not gonna change the outcome.”
His voice catches on the last word.
Outcome.
As if this is a game with a scoreboard.
He swallows hard and looks away, jaw trembling.
“They said months,” he says quietly. “They said to prepare for months.”
I feel it like a blow to the ribs.
Months.
I grip my crutch tighter to keep myself steady.
Cameron drags a hand over his mouth. “And Sloane…” His voice goes rough. “Sloane just sat there like she was made of stone. Like she didn’t hear anything. Like she could outstare death.”
I can picture it too easily.
Sloane in a plastic chair, spine straight, face blank, swallowing grief like it’s poison she can metabolize if she tries hard enough.
“She asked questions,” Cameron continues. “Like—like if she could find the right combination of words, they’d give us a different answer.”
He looks at me then, eyes wet and furious.
“I hate this,” he admits, and the vulnerability in his voice is the real gut punch. “I hate that I can’t fix it.”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
Cameron exhales hard, breath fogging in front of him. “And he just…” He shakes his head. “He thanked them. Like he was comfortingus.”
My throat tightens.
Because Pops would do that.
He’d keep being Pops until the last second, even if it kills him faster.
Cameron’s shoulders sag. The fight drains out of him all at once, leaving him hollow.
“I don’t know what to do,” he says quietly.
I stare at him. My best friend. The guy who’s been my brother since we first met in grade school. The guy who talks too much when he’s nervous and gets loud when he’s scared and thinks he can outrun anything if he moves fast enough.
And right now he looks stuck.
“You do what you always do,” I say, voice steady. “You show up.”
Cameron laughs once, humorlessly. “I don’t feel like showing up. I feel like driving until my gas tank’s empty.”
“I know.”
He looks at me again, eyes narrowing slightly. “How do you always—” He trails off, frustration sharpening his words. “How are you always so damn calm?”
I almost laugh. I’m not calm. I’m frozen and trying to process.
