Cameron’s gaze flicks to the hallway. “Sloane already read it twice.”
Of course she did.
Sloane doesn’t read things because she wants information.
She reads things because information feels like control.
“And then,” Cameron adds, voice flattening, “she reorganized the pantry so the comfort kit isn’t ‘in the way.’”
I huff a small breath—half laugh, half ache—because that’s so her it hurts.
Pops’s voice comes calm from the recliner. “She means well.”
Cameron mutters, “She’s gonna give herself an ulcer.”
Pops hums, tired. “She might.”
I nod once, because I don’t know what to say that won’t make it worse.
Pops turns his head and studies me. Not my brace this time.
My face.
The way my shoulders sit too tight.
The way my eyes keep flicking down the hall like I’m waiting for someone.
“How’d rehab go?” he asks.
“Jason tried to kill me,” I say, because that’s easier than admitting I’m terrified of the life I might not get back.
Cameron’s mouth twitches. “Sounds right.”
Pops nods once. “Good. Keep doing it.”
“I know,” I mutter.
Pops watches me for a beat like he knows I’m doing what Sloane does—keeping busy so I don’t have to feel.
Then he says, quiet but pointed, “Don’t break yourself trying to prove you’re still you.”
The words land too deep.
I swallow hard. “Yeah.”
Cameron moves to the fridge, opens it, then closes it like he forgot what he wanted. “Hospice nurse called this morning,” he says. “Just checking in. Said she’ll swing by again in a couple days.”
Pops hums. “She’s nice.”
Cameron’s mouth tightens. “She is.”
He says it like that’s the problem—because nice doesn’t change what hospice means.
I lower myself carefully onto the couch and press the ice pack to my knee.
Cameron’s gaze flicks to me again. Like there’s something on his tongue.
Like he wants to say something and doesn’t know how.
