Page 86 of All Along The Watchtower

“So Monty’s got this wild idea for spring break.” I stroked Pop’s hand, sharing the gossip like I always had. “He wants to do a pirate-themed promotion. Says we should dress upthe staff. Peter’s already designed him this elaborate costume with a fancy tricorn hat.” The memory of Monty’s enthusiastic demonstration made me smile. “He was prancing around the bar in it the other day, making everyone call him Captain Montgomery.”

Pop’s fingers twitched again, and I swore I caught a hint of amusement around his mouth.

“Oh, and you should see what he wants the rest of us to wear. I told him there was no way I was putting on a corset, but he’s determined. Says we need historical accuracy.” I shook my head. “I reminded him we’re a microbrewery, not a renaissance faire.”

Ford chuckled beside me. “I’d pay good money to see that argument.”

“You missed the best part. He’s commissioned Peter to paint a new sign with a pirate ship on it. Claims we need proper ambiance.” I leaned closer to Pop. “But between you and me, I think he just wants an excuse to wear the hat full time.”

The corner of Pop’s mouth twitched upward.

“And get this—he’s already ordered these plastic doubloons to hand out as drink tokens. Special rum drinks, naturally. Says we’re going to make a fortune off the college kids for spring break.” I squeezed Pop’s hand. “I told him you’d probably have some opinions about historical accuracy yourself when you saw his getup.”

Pop’s lips moved, and though his voice was raspy and slurred, I caught, “No… swords. Insurance… nightmare.”

The laugh that burst from my throat was half sob. I squeezed his hand harder, struggling to keep my voice steady. “Hey there, Pop. Good nap?”

His eyelids fluttered, fighting to open against the harsh fluorescent lights. When they finally cracked, his gaze was unfocused, drifting around the room before settling vaguely in my direction.

“Wha…” He licked dry lips. “Where?”

“You’re in the hospital. Had a bit of an AFib episode.” I kept my tone light, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. “Scared the hell out of everyone at the Brewhouse.”

Ford’s hand settled on my shoulder, a quiet anchor as Pop processed this information with glacial slowness.

“How long?”

“About two weeks.” I stroked his hand, noting how his fingers curled weakly around mine. “The doctors had to keep you under while they got everything sorted.”

His brow furrowed. “Tired.”

“That’s okay. You just rest. I’ll be right here.”

Pop’s eyes started to drift closed, and I thought he’d fallen back asleep when they suddenly snapped open again. His gaze sharpened, focusing on where Ford’s hand was still linked with mine.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as his eyes moved between us. “About damned time,” he muttered, voice gravelly but clear.

Heat rushed to my face. Trust Pop to notice that particular development even through a fog of medication. But before I could stammer out any kind of response, his eyes had already slipped shut again, breathing evening out into the rhythm of sleep.

I sagged against Ford, relief making my knees weak. Pop had woken up. He’d spoken. He’d even managed to be a smartass about my love life. The tightness that had been living in my chest for two weeks finally began to ease.

Ford’s arm slid around my waist, supporting me. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I swiped at the tears tracking down my cheeks. “Just… yeah.”

We sat with Pop for another hour, watching him drift in and out. Each time he woke, he seemed a little more present, though he didn’t manage more than a few words at a time.

Dr. Mitchell’s arrival pulled us into the hallway for an update.

She consulted her tablet. “The initial signs are very encouraging. He’s responsive, oriented, and showing good comprehension. His speech is a bit slurred, which is normal at this stage, but he’s able to form complete thoughts.”

“What’s next?” I asked.

“We’ll continue to monitor him closely as we decrease sedation. Once he’s more consistently awake, we can better assess what deficits we’re dealing with and develop a rehabilitation plan.” She looked up, her expression kind but serious. “I want to emphasize that we’re still very early in the process. It’s too soon to make any definitive predictions about recovery time or exactly where his baseline will be. But what we’re seeing so far gives us reason to be optimistic.”

I nodded, processing. “When can we bring others to see him?”

“Let’s give it another day or two, see how he does with extended periods of consciousness. Then we can start allowing brief visits from immediate family.”

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