Page 40 of Breaking Through

"You should probably get home then." I glanced at the clock, surprised to find it was almost 11 PM.

He nodded, but made no move to get up. Instead, he pressed his lips to the scar on my shoulder. "For the record? This was worth staying up late for."

We dressed slowly. When Holden pulled on his flannel shirt, I noticed he'd buttoned it wrong, but I didn't say anything. It would be another precious memory of his quirky, unique personality.

At his car, he turned to me one last time. "Promise you won't disappear again?"

"I promise." And for the first time in years, I meant it.

He drove away, taillights disappearing into the night. I stood on my porch until the sound of his engine faded, replaced by the gentle lap of waves in the distance.

Inside, the cabin felt different—less like a fortress and more like a home. I knew the nightmares might return, but now I had more ammunition to fight against them. I had a future worth anticipating.

Somewhere in the forest, an owl called out to its mate. I started thinking about crystal wind chimes and lake views and how sometimes the scariest steps forward are the ones most worth taking.

Chapter thirteen

Holden

The new medication organizer was a wonder of modern design, sitting on Grandpa's kitchen counter. It was forest green with seven perfectly engineered compartments. It had taken three pharmacy visits and one very determined medical supply clerk to find something that worked as well as I wanted.

Finally, we had it. There would be no more fumbling with child-proof caps or squinting at tiny labels. The manufacturer had clearly consulted real seniors before designing this one. It included smooth-sliding lids, crisp lettering, and compartments deep enough to hold the whole day's worth of pills without spilling.

I double-checked each day against Dr. Matthews's master list, ensuring the built-in divider properly separated the morning and evening doses. The new inhaler—some cutting-edge design that had Grandpa muttering about "newfangled gadgets"—nestled perfectly into its designated slot.

"Match." Grandpa called from the living room, his voice more robust than I'd heard it in weeks. "If you're rewriting those labels in calligraphy, I'm staging an intervention."

"That was one time." I inserted a growl beneath the words. "And in my defense, your handwriting is terrible."

"I was a principal. Bad handwriting is a job requirement." He appeared in the doorway, oxygen tube draped over his shoulder in what he called his casual Friday look. The unit hummed steadily, and its sound was now the house's heartbeat—familiar, necessary, no longer frightening.

"The new treatment's working." I watched him walk to his usual chair without shuffling. He had more confidence than he'd shown in months. It wasn't only hope or wishful thinking. The oxygen levels had stabilized enough that Maria felt comfortable scheduling days off instead of being on call.

"Don't sound so surprised." Grandpa settled into the chair, barely winded. "Some of us are too stubborn to follow expected trajectories."

I started the coffee. For him, it was decaf, but for me, I needed a fully loaded brew. I was all smiles until a certain park ranger entered my mind again.

Wade's memorial service in Chicago was barely a week away, and the weight of my promise to be there for him while not wanting to leave Grandpa sat heavy in my chest.

Before I could stew about it for long, my phone rang. It was Mom's specific ringtone. Grandpa frowned as I answered. Instead of showing her overly professional Zoom-ready appearance, she'd opted for a voice call.

"Holden, sweetheart." To my surprise, her voice had lost that brittle edge it used to get when discussing Grandpa's care. "How are his numbers today?"

"Stable." I leaned against the counter, watching Grandpa pretend he wasn't listening intently. "The new inhaler's making a real difference. Maria says—"

"That's actually why I'm calling." She took an audible breath.

My stomach clenched, ready for another carefully crafted argument about facilities and professional care. But Mom's following words knocked the air from my lungs.

"There's a service that specializes in respiratory support. They work with families to maintain care in the home environment. They've got an excellent success rate with cases like your grandfather's."

I gripped the counter edge, suddenly needing the support. After months of facility brochures appearing in my email and heated arguments about "proper medical supervision" and "quality of life metrics," it sounded like she'd changed her mind.

"You're researching home care?" My voice cracked on the last word. Across the kitchen, Grandpa set down his coffee cup, attention razor-sharp. I switched the call to speaker.

"Well, yes." Papers rustled on her end—not the efficient shuffle of someone organizing talking points, but the nervous fidgeting I remembered from childhood when she struggled to admit being wrong about something. "I've been watching the videos you send, seeing how he lights up when telling stories to your coworkers. I smile when he still corrects Parker's grammar even while accepting all those baked goods. I see how he talks about Isabella's art with the neighbors..."

She paused, and I heard the edge of tears in her voice. "He's not merely surviving there, Holden. He's living. Sometimes, we get so focused on medical charts and recovery statistics that we forget about the heart of things. Your grandmother would have seen it immediately. I'm sorry it took me longer."

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