If you know her the way I do, you can see the way she’s using the questions like a life raft.
Pops listens, nodding occasionally, even cracking a joke at one point that makes the nurse smile.
“Guess I’m getting VIP service,” he says dryly.
Sloane doesn’t smile, and I watch her grip the pen tighter.
The social worker talks about support. Counseling. Respite care. Things that sound nice in theory and impossible in practice.
Sloane nods like she’s absorbing it all.
Pops rubs his temple once, then rests his head back.
The nurse notices immediately. “Headache?”
Pops waves a hand. “Just a little one.”
Sloane’s pen pauses, her eyes flicking to him. Then something in her face tightens so hard it looks painful.
The nurse speaks gently. “We can help manage that. That’s part of what we do.”
Pops nods like he’s making peace with the idea.
Sloane writes it down like she’s trying to cage the wordmanagebefore it escapes.
The meeting wraps up with paperwork and phone numbers and a promise that someone will deliver a small stack of medications and supplies within the next day or two.
As the hospice team gathers their things, Pops shakes their hands like he’s thanking them for coming to a barbecue.
“Appreciate you,” he says.
The nurse’s eyes soften. “We’ll take good care of you, Mr. Rhodes.”
Pops smiles. “I know you will.”
They leave.
The front door clicks shut, and the atmosphere in the house changes.
The quiet that follows is different than before.
Heavier.
Permanent.
Pops exhales slowly, then pushes at the blanket like he’s suddenly exhausted.
“I’m gonna lie down,” he says.
Sloane’s voice is immediate. “I’ll help you.”
Pops shakes his head. “Logan can.”
Her eyes snap to him.
To me.
To the idea of me touching her father right now.
