I don’t want to go upstairs.
It feels wrong to be farther away from him, even for a few hours.
So I decide, right then, that I’m sleeping on the couch.
It isn’t comfortable.
I don’t care.
I grab the blanket off the back of the sofa and fold it over my arm, then pause.
I still need to get ready for bed. Brush my teeth. Wash my face. Change.
I stare at Dad again, reluctant to leave him.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll be right back. I’m not going far.”
I head upstairs quickly.
The bathroom light is harsh after the dim living room. I move through the motions on autopilot—brush, rinse, wash my face.
I change into what I sleep in without thinking about it. Habit. Muscle memory. Tank top. Shorts. Bare feet on a cold floor.
My eyes catch my reflection in the mirror, and I don’t look too long.
I don’t want to see the version of myself that’s one bad moment away from breaking again.
I turn the light off and move back down the hall, then down the stairs.
When I step back into the living room, my eyes go straight to the bed.
Dad is still there.
But something is different.
It takes my brain a second to register it, like my mind is trying to protect me by delaying the truth.
His shoulders shift under the blanket. A small tremor.
He’s shivering. But his forehead shines faintly in the low light, damp. Sweat.
My heart drops so hard it feels like it hits the floor.
“Dad?” I whisper, already moving.
His breathing is short.
Not steady and slow like it was five minutes ago.
Short. Shallow. Like each breath is work.
“No,” I say, and the word comes out sharp, panicked.
I’m at the bedside in two steps, hand hovering over him because I don’t know what to do first—check the tubing, check his skin, check his temperature, check his eyes.
His face looks flushed. His mouth opens on a breath that sounds wrong.
I jerk back like I’ve been burned, because fear makes me stupid. Kendra’s words slam into my head.
