Page 33 of Breaking Through

I answered, and Mom's face appeared bright—Zoom ready—against what looked like her home office background. Despite the late hour, she had perfectly styled hair—probably because she never went anywhere, even to bed, without looking camera-ready. I'd once caught her doing yoga in full makeup.

"Holden, sweetheart. Why are you still up? Never mind—we have wonderful news. The facility in Milwaukee had a cancellation. They can take your grandfather next week."

The journal slipped from my fingers, hitting the floor with a soft thud. "What?"

"We've handled everything. The paperwork's ready, and they have an excellent rehabilitation program. The director assured me—"

"No." The word came out more forceful than I intended.

"Holden." Dad's voice joined in from somewhere off-screen. "Be reasonable. We've found the best possible care—"

"The best possible care is staying here at home." My voice shook. "With family—Maria and me. With memories. With—"

"With a grandson who's putting his whole life on hold?" Mom's perfectly plucked eyebrows drew together. "Sweetheart, we've discussed this. The strain is getting to you. You're not sleeping, and you're emotional..."

"I'm emotional because it's two in the morning, and you're trying to ship Grandpa off to some facility without even asking what he wants!"

"Clark." Mom's attention shifted. "Tell him. Tell him how much better it would be to have professional care."

Grandpa straightened in his chair, and suddenly, I saw echoes of the firm but gentle high school principal he'd once been. "Actually, Margaret, I think I'll stay right here where I can watch the lake and listen to Belle's wind chimes. Some things matter more than state-of-the-art medical equipment."

"Dad—"

"No." His voice was gentle but firm. "This is my home. My choice."

The call ended, but Mom's protests echoed in my ears. My hands shook as I picked up Gran's fallen journal.

"Well." Grandpa's eyes twinkled despite the tension. "That was about as smooth as when your grandmother decided to teach interpretive dance at the senior center. Old Mr. Peterson got so caught up in expressing himself as an autumn leaf that he tangled himself in the curtains. It took three people to rescue him from the fabric."

A laugh bubbled up through my worry. "Didn't he end up joining a community theater group after that?"

Grandpa nodded. "He scored the lead role inOklahoma!the following spring. Belle always said she didn't fail at teaching dance—she just helped him find his real stage."

My phone chimed again. It was another text from Wade:

Can't wait to see you again.

After helping Grandpa back to bed, I lay in my room staring at the ceiling, Wade's text message still unanswered on my phone. He'd think I was asleep by now, which was probably for the best. My mind wouldn't stop spinning between my parents' call, Grandpa's quiet strength, and Wade's vulnerability.

Gran's words rattled around in my head:Every crack tells a story, and every repair adds to the history.

I rolled over, pulling up Wade's text again:

Can't wait to see you again.

Something about those simple words, combined with the weight of Gran's journal beside me on the bed, wouldn't let me rest. The clock on my nightstand ticked past 3 AM, then 3:30. By 4, I started throwing on jeans and grabbing my keys.

I couldn't explain the urge that drove me into the pre-dawn darkness. Maybe it was the lingering adrenaline from my parents' call, or perhaps it was just that everything felt more urgent in those suspended hours between midnight and morning. Either way, I found myself driving to Wade's cabin.

Pre-dawn fog rolled in from the lake, making the world uncertain and gray. My headlights caught wisps of mist that danced across the road like lost spirits.

I hadn't called first. Maybe because I knew he'd say he was okay or because some part of me didn't want to have him tell me not to come after the chaos with my parents. Or maybe because I thought I had answers, the way young, foolish people often do when faced with someone else's pain.

Wade's truck sat in the driveway, and a lamp glowed in his window despite the early hour. He was probably having another sleepless night. He'd told me those still happened. I'd also noticed the shadows under his eyes growing a bit darker.

He opened the door before I could knock, wearing sweatpants and a faded Chicago FD T-shirt that had seen better days. The sight of that shirt, with its barely legible logo and worn collar, surprised me. He still wore their colors, even now.

"Holden?" The gruffness in his voice couldn't hide his concern. "What's wrong?"

---