Something sharp flashes in her expression.
Pops doesn’t flinch. “Go wash up,” he tells her gently. “You’ve been running all day.”
Sloane’s jaw works like she wants to argue. Then she nods once, stiffly. “Fine.”
She disappears down the hall, and a few seconds later, the bathroom door closes.
Pops looks at me. “You good?”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”
“Don’t go breaking on me,” he murmurs, like it’s a joke.
It isn’t.
I help him stand, slow and careful. His hand grips my forearm for balance. He’s lighter than he should be. Too light.
When I get him settled in bed, he sighs and closes his eyes, the lines in his face deeper than they were yesterday.
“Thanks, kid,” he whispers.
My throat burns. “Always.”
I leave his room and close the door softly behind me.
The shower is running, and once again I can hear the faint sound of Sloane’s choked sobs trying to hide behind the water.
My fingers curl around the handle of my crutch until my knuckles ache.
A few nights ago, Pops told me to be here. To stop disappearing. To stop letting her hate me so I can stay safe.
I can’t fix this.
I can’t save Pops.
I can’t rip cancer out of his brain with my bare hands.
But I can do one small thing.
Once again, I go to the kitchen and grab a clean glass and fill it with water. No ice, just the way she likes it.
Then I walk down the hall and stop outside Sloane’s door.
I step inside quietly, moving like the floor might betray me if I’m too loud.
Her nightstand is neat, with a coiled phone charger, a stack of books, her notebook from the meeting already placed there like she’s trying to keep it close.
I set the glass of water down carefully.
My hand hovers for a second, stupidly, like I’m tempted to leave a note.
I don’t.
A note would make it too real. A note would invite a conversation she’s not ready for. One thatI’mnot ready for.
So, just like yesterday, I leave the water.
Because she’ll need it when she’s done crying into steam and tile.
