It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic.
It’s quiet evidence.
I step inside, and the first thing I see is a binder on the kitchen counter, thick and new, sitting where Sloane can’t avoid it.
A bright sticker on the front.
HOSPICE PLAN OF CARE
A stack of pamphlets beside it. A printed schedule. A magnet with an after-hours number. A small paper bag labeled with instructions in tidy handwriting.
The smell is different too—fake lemon and some sort of tea with strong floral notes, like someone tried to sterilize the world and then pretended it was normal again.
But underneath it is something else.
A new layer of reality.
Cameron is at the sink, washing a mug that looks like it’s already clean. His shoulders are tight, jaw flexing like he’s grinding down something he can’t swallow.
Pops is in his recliner, blanket over his legs, both hands around his mug like he’s anchoring himself to warmth. He looks tired around the eyes, but he’s doing what he always does—acting like this is just another day with a minor inconvenience.
Then there’s the other thing.
A small, soft-sided black bag tucked against the wall near the pantry. A kit. Supplies. The kind of stuff you don’t bring into a home unless you’re wanting to help the end be more comfortable. I shuddered when the nurse was talking about it, but seeing it lying there like this is its new home is somehow even worse.
My stomach dips.
Cameron turns when he hears me. His gaze flicks to my brace, then my face.
Not accusing. Not suspicious. Just scanning.
Because that’s what we do now—scan for emergencies.
“You survive?” Cameron asks.
“Barely,” I mutter, easing my keys onto the counter.
Pops’s expression softens when he sees me. “Hey, kid.”
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low as I step closer. “How’s your head?”
Pops rubs his temple once, then drops his hand like he didn’t. “Fine.”
Cameron scoffs. “Liar.”
Pops’s mouth twitches. “Takes one to know one.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
My eyes snag again on the binder. The papers. The kit bag.
Cameron wipes his hands on a dish towel, then gestures toward the counter. “They left a whole plan. Med schedule. Emergency numbers. Who to call for what. Feels like everything is just…planned out but with a giant question mark left hovering over it all.”
His voice is steady, but his eyes aren’t.
“Yeah,” I say quietly.
