I look at Dad, at the thin line of his cheekbone under the dim light, and my chest pulls tight.
“He was shivering earlier,” Kendra continues, keeping her voice low. “And then he got sweaty. That’s why I checked his temperature again. Just keep an eye on his breathing and his color. If he seems confused when he wakes, if he’s struggling to catch his breath, if his fever spikes— Call.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
Kendra steps closer to me and lowers her voice further.
“I wrote the number down for the on-call service,” she says. “It’s on the counter by the meds schedule. But if it jumps, you take him to the ER. Don’t wait for the on-call doctor to tell you that.”
“I will,” I promise.
Her gaze holds mine for a beat.
“You’ve been doing a really good job,” she says.
That almost cracks me open right there. I press my lips together and nod, because if I speak, I’ll start crying again, and I’m so tired of crying.
Kendra picks up her bag.
“I’m going to head out,” she says. “Call if you need anything.”
“I will,” I say, and my voice wobbles anyway. “Drive safe.”
She gives me a small smile and slips out, leaving the house even quieter. The silence rushes in behind her like cold air.
I stand there for a second with my hands clenched at my sides, staring at Dad. Then I walk to the bed and stop at the rail.
His eyes are closed. His mouth is slightly open. The blanket is pulled up to his chest, and his hand rests on top of it.
I don’t touch him. I just look.
Because I still have this stupid, irrational fear that if I touch him, I’ll realize something is wrong that I didn’t see from a distance. Like my hand will find the edge of the cliff I’ve been trying not to look over.
His chest rises.
Falls.
Rises again.
I let my fingers settle over his hand anyway, light.
“Hey,” I whisper, because I can’tnotsay it. “I’m back.”
He doesn’t move. I don’t expect him to.
But I keep my hand there, my thumb rubbing once across his knuckles, because that’s what I do when I’m trying not to come apart.
“Kendra said you had a fever earlier,” I tell him quietly. “But it came down. So… don’t scare me like that again, okay?”
My throat tightens on the last word.
I swallow hard and look around the room—the bed in the middle of the house, the pill organizer, the printed schedule, the stack of clean towels folded on the chair, the trash bag tucked beside the bed like we’re trying to pretend this is all normal.
Normal.
I’m so tired of that word.
I pull my hand back and straighten, rolling my shoulders once like it might shake off the tension.
