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Because Caspian himself had never made me feel unsafe. That was the contradiction I could never fully explain. His world frightened me, but the man inside it made me feel more protected than anybody ever had.

Deep down, though, that ten-year-old girl who had already learned how quickly somebody you loved could disappear was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Six years ago, it had.

“Granny,” I murmured, stepping onto the porch and pulling the screen door back.

Her smile was slow, warm, and familiar enough to bring tears to the corners of my eyes.

“There go my baby,” she said, her voice raspy and thinner than it used to be.

I wrapped my arms around her carefully, tucking her against my chest.

She smelled like peppermint, cocoa butter, and the lavender sachet she kept in her linen closet. She hugged me back with everything she had, but her grip didn't have the iron strength it used to.

“You’re out here in this damp air,” I scolded gently, pulling back just enough to assess her color. “Where is your nasal cannula?”

Granny waved a dismissive hand, though her chest heaved slightly on the inhale. “I had it on all morning, Lakelyn. I wasn’t about to greet my granddaughter and great-grandbaby looking like I’m hooked up to a tractor.”

“It’s a concentrator, Granny, not farm equipment.”

“Same difference. Get in this house before y’all catch a chill.”

***

The next morning, my nurse instincts had completely taken over. Granny had appointments written on scraps of paper, medication bottles scattered in three different places, and a specialist’s number saved in her phone under “doctor man.”

Standing at the kitchen counter, I studied the contact before turning toward her.

“Granny, why is your pulmon—” I stopped myself and held up her phone. “Why is your specialist saved as doctor man?”

She sat at the table with a cup of coffee, watching me like I was the one making things complicated. “Because I know who I mean.”

“What if somebody else needs to call him?”

“They can ask me.”

“And if you’re asleep?”

“Wake me up.” She took another sip, apparently satisfied that she had solved the problem.

Willow lowered her cereal spoon, her mouth twitching. “I tried to fix it.”

Granny pointed at her without setting down her cup. “No, you didn’t.”

“I thought about fixing it,” Willow admitted. When Granny raised an eyebrow, she shrugged. “That’s step one.”

I shook my head and carried the phone to the table. Between the scattered paperwork and Granny’s determination to remember everything herself, I could already tell I had work to do. “Well, I’m actually fixing it. I’m putting everything in one place.”

“You just got here yesterday and already bossy.”

“I learned from you.”

“That is not true.”

Willow nearly choked on her cereal. She pressed a hand to her chest, swallowed, then gave Granny a disbelieving expression. “Granny. Be serious.”

For most of the morning, I sorted through appointment slips, checked prescription labels, and asked questions while Granny supplied answers whenever she felt like it. Some she knew immediately. Others required a trip to her purse or a reminder from Willow. By the time I finished, I had her appointments, medication schedule, insurance information, doctor numbers, and refill dates organized. I also made a shared calendar so Willow and I could keep track of who would take her where.