Professional.
Pops is in his recliner, blanket over his legs, posture straight like he’s meeting with a principal instead of a team that’s here to prepare him for the end.
A woman in scrubs sits on the edge of the couch with a clipboard. Another person—a social worker, maybe—sits in the armchair with a folder.
Sloane stands near the kitchen island with a notebook open, pen in hand.
Of course she has a notebook.
Of course she’s taking notes, like grief is something you can manage with bullet points.
Her face is composed. Her eyes are bright. Her jaw is locked.
Cameron isn’t here.
Or maybe he is, and he’s hiding.
The hospice nurse looks up when I enter. “Hi. You must be Logan.”
I freeze for half a second.
Even strangers know my place in this house.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Hi.”
Pops turns his head and gives me a small smile. “Hey, kid.”
Something in my chest cracks.
Because he looks so normal.
Because he sounds like Pops.
Because the presence of hospice makes it feel like we’re already losing him.
Sloane’s gaze flicks to me—quick, unreadable—then back to her notes.
The nurse continues, voice gentle, practiced, “We’re just going over what hospice services can provide. Symptom management, nursing visits, medication support, equipment if needed?—”
Equipment.
Like the house might need to turn into a hospital.
My stomach turns.
Sloane asks questions. A lot of questions.
How often will a nurse come?
What number do we call after hours?
What does pain management look like?
What signs should we watch for?
Her pen moves fast. Her voice stays steady.
If you didn’t know her, you’d think she was calm.
