“Call me when you know.”

My father did not answer. Tyler texted, “Keep me posted,” followed by a thumbs-up emoji after I told him it was serious.

By the time I reached the hospital, it was just after dawn. The parking lot was wet from old snow, and the air had that sharp Ohio cold that makes spring feel far away. Inside, the building smelled like bleach, stale coffee, and overheated air. He was on the third floor.

When I walked into his room, I stopped short. Illness had made him smaller. Grandpa had never been a large man, but he had always seemed solid, like something built around a center that could not be moved. In that hospital bed, he looked thin and fragile, with an oxygen tube under his nose and his hands resting too lightly on the blanket.

Then his eyes opened. He looked at me, and the corner of his mouth lifted just a little.

“Guess you’re the one who didn’t forget me.”

I sat beside him and took his hand. I told him I had called Mom, Dad, and Tyler. I told him they would come as soon as they could. Even as I said it, I hated how false it sounded. He shook his head slightly.

“They won’t.”

He was right.

Part 2

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