"Don't tempt me," I smile.
"Oh, Ellie," he groans as he starts the engine. "You're going to be the death of me."
I laugh, but inside, my heart stirs in a way I didn't expect. A part of me—the part I kept locked up tight for years—starts whispering that maybe I don't want to leave this place. Maybe I don't want to go back to my shiny, curated, far-away life.
Not anymore.
Maybe peace doesn’t feel like standing still.
It feels like him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
We’re All Dying
Dad watches me through tired eyes, his chest rising and falling in slow, labored effort. The air in the room feels thick—too warm, too quiet. The nurses told me earlier that Dr. Kulkarni ordered some tests, but results are delayed. Short-staffed. The ER is full. It's one of the hottest days of the summer and, apparently, the heat doesn't just scorch the pavement. It breaks people, too.
I sit beside him, fingers curled around the armrest like a lifeline.
"You doing okay?" I ask softly.
He shrugs, then coughs, the sound deep and rattling. "I'm alright," he says, but I don't believe him.
I nod, even though nothing about this feels alright. "Are you... do you feel ready to go home?"
He exhales through his nose, strained and hard. It's not a yes. It's not a no. It's just another sound that makes me sit up straighter, hyper-aware of every second passing.
"They should have your results soon," I say, as if filling the silence might fix something. "They're just backed up."
The room hums with monitors and tension.
"I just..." I start, then stop. I'm starting to worry. Starting to panic. Starting to feel like I'm the only one holding the seams of this family together.
I clear my throat. "Mom should be here."
His body visibly stiffens. His eyes drift toward the ceiling.
Another exhale. Another hitch of the breath. Another weight on my chest.
I don't know what to do with my hands. Or my words. Or the growing fear curling inside me like smoke.
"Can I get you anything?" I ask, though my stomach's already twisting with the unspoken.
Dad shakes his head. "We need to have a talk."
My breath catches. "Sure. About what?"
He pats the edge of the bed with a trembling hand. "Come here, Ellie."
I rise from the chair, my limbs heavy, and sit on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel the warmth of him but not close enough to stop the dread coiling in my chest.
"What's going on, Dad?"
"There are a lot of things I should've taught you," he begins, his voice gravelly and low. "Things I always meant to say but somehow... never did."
I try to smile. I can’t. "You sound like you're dying."
He presses his dry lips together. "We're all dying, in one way or another."
