Page 66 of All Along The Watchtower

“The chopper’s eight minutes out,” someone called.

Her eyes wide and panicked, Bree’s fingers tightened around mine. “Okay. Yes.”

CHAPTER 30

BREE

The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across Dr. Mitchell’s face as she delivered the news. “The stroke was caused by a clot that broke free during the AFib episode. We’ve placed Mr. Cartwright in a medically induced coma to give his brain time to heal and reduce the swelling.”

My hand tightened around Ford’s. He hadn’t let go. Not once since he took my hand at the Brewhouse. Not on the long ferry ride across the sound to the mainland. Not on the drive to the mainland hospital. Not now. And that contact was the only thing keeping me from falling completely apart as the doctor continued to talk.

My first instinct had been to pull away, to handle this the way I handled everything—alone. But for once, I couldn’t make myself do it. Couldn’t pretend I was fine. The thought of facing this without support terrified me more than accepting his help.

The medical terminology washed over me in waves. Tissue damage. Anticoagulants. Potential outcomes. I caught maybe one word in three. This was everything I’d been terrified of happening since the summer he’d been diagnosed all those years ago.

“When will you know if…” My voice cracked. I couldn’t finish the question.

“The next seventy-two hours are critical.” Dr. Mitchell’s expression softened. “I wish I could give you more definitive answers, but right now we’re monitoring and waiting to see how he responds to treatment.”

Ford’s thumb stroked across my knuckles. “What’s the best-case scenario?”

“If the swelling reduces and there’s minimal tissue damage, we can begin reducing sedation. But I need to be clear—even in the best case, your grandfather will have a long recovery ahead.”

I nodded mechanically, trying to process it all. Pop had always been my rock, the one constant in my life since I was eight years old. The thought of losing him left me reeling. How could there possibly be any kind of life without Pop? The Brewhouse wouldn’t be the same without him in that corner booth or pitching in behind the bar.

“Can I sit with him?”

“Of course. The nurse will take you to his room. Just remember, even in a coma, patients can often hear what’s happening around them. Talk to him. Let him know you’re there.”

Ford squeezed my hand. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

I shook my head. If he let me go, I’d crumble. “Stay. Please.” The words came out barely above a whisper. “I don’t think I can do this alone.”

The admission cost me. I’d spent so many years proving I didn’t need anyone, building walls to protect myself. But walls weren’t much use when your world was crumbling.

His eyes met mine, full of understanding and something deeper I wasn’t ready to examine. “Whatever you need, Bree. I’m here.”

The ICU nurse led us down a maze of sterile corridors that all looked the same. The antiseptic smell burned my nose, bringing back memories of the last time I’d been in a hospital. After the AFib attack that had earned Pop this diagnosis.

Ford’s solid presence at my side kept those memories from drowning me.

Room 412. The nurse pushed open the door, and my breath caught. Pop lay still as death in the hospital bed, tubes and wires connecting him to an array of beeping monitors. His weathered face looked sunken, gray. This wasn’t my Pop. My Pop was larger than life, always moving, always doing. Even after he’d officially “retired,” he never really stopped working.

Now he looked small. Fragile. Old.

My legs threatened to give out as we approached the bed. Ford’s arm slipped around my waist, steadying me.

With trembling fingers, I reached for Pop’s hand. His joints were knotted with arthritis from decades of working on boats and behind the bar, but his grip had always been strong. Now his hand lay limp in mine.

“Hey Pop.” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried again. “You really scared us back there. But you’re going to be okay. You have to be okay.”

The steady beep of the heart monitor was my only answer.

“You can’t leave me, Pop. Who’s going to tell me I’m working too hard? Who’s going to share coffee with me in the morning and tell me stories about the old days?” Tears spilled down my cheeks. “Who’s going to help me keep Monty in line when he tries to do something else outrageous with beer? I need you.”

I squeezed his hand, willing him to squeeze back. “You’re all I’ve got left. You’re the only one who’s never left me. You can’t start now.”

I don’t know how long we stayed. I don’t remember what else I said.

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