Page 17 of Slots & Sticks
After grabbing my iced coffee, I step outside into the driveway as he trails behind. Without saying anything, I slip into the passenger seat.
“Seems like the Paps have backed off,” Camden says once we’re in the car.
“They got their fill at the memorial.” I rest my head against the window. The city blurs past, glass and sunlight and too many memories. Funny how the thought of driving myself anywhere makes my chest tighten, but sitting next to him feels like the first full inhale I’ve taken in days.
We’ve only gone about a mile when my eyes snap open. “Cam? Can we stop by the hospital”
“Sure.” He changes lanes without hesitation, the blinker ticking as steadily as his voice.
“I mean, you don’t have to. I don’t want to waste your whole day.”
“I’m good. Don’t worry about me. It’s the off-season, remember?” His mouth curves, calm and easy, like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m going to owe you dinner after all this,” I say, trying for lightness that doesn’t quite land.
Camden glances over, brief but steady. “You don’t owe me anything, Dot. I’m here because I want to be.”
That line sits between us like a gift I don’t know how to unwrap. Nobody wants to be around me right now. I cry without warning, lose track of hours, and forget to eat. Yet he keeps showing up.
The hospital looms into view, white and sterile against the desert sky. My stomach tightens. The air smells like rain the same way it did that night.
We park in the same corner of the UMC lot and walk toward the entrance. The automatic doors sigh open, and the first hit of antiseptic burns my throat. A few nurses recognize me and nod me through without a word.
I expect Camden to hang back, to wait near the elevators. But when I glance over, he’s right there—silent, solid, a half-step behind me. This will be the first time he’s seen Dad since the crash.
He doesn’t ask if I’m ready. He matches his stride to mine, like he’s decided that until I can stand on my own again, he’ll be my gravity.
Dad’s asleep when we arrive.
Even after everything, I’m never prepared to see him in this way. I keep waiting to get used to it. To walk in and not feel like the world’s been scraped raw. But every time I see his hands, I feel the agony all over again.
The smell hits first—antiseptic and burned plastic, something sharp and sterile trying to smother the scent of what really happened. Machines whisper and beep around him like a lullaby meant for someone else’s father.
Camden stops beside me. His breath catches, a sound so soft I might’ve missed it if I wasn’t listening for something—anything—to break the silence.
He’s known my dad his whole life. Ranger Shaw, the human glacier. The man who could skate backward faster than most players could move forward. The man who could fix a leak, break up a fight, or shoulder a team’s losing streak without ever raising his voice.
Now his body is barely recognizable.
His legs and torso are hidden under the blanket, but his arms hang suspended in slings, bandaged thick and white. Tubes snake from his chest and nose, each one proof that his body is trying to remember how to live. His face is swollen and bruised, the skin stretched shiny where the burns are worst. One eye is sealed shut, and the other is fighting to stay open even in sleep.
Cam’s hand twitches as if he wants to reach for me, but he stops halfway. I take it anyway. The warmth of his palm anchors me while the rest of me starts to splinter.
Every time I see Dad, I realize how close I came to losing both of them. To being an orphan. And every time, I break in a new way.
The sound I make isn’t a cry so much as an unraveling. Camden’s arm wraps around me, and I fold into him, sobs shaking out of me until they finally wake Dad. His good eye opens a sliver.
“Hey, sweetpea.” His voice is a rasp, thin and wet. “What are you doing here?”
I scrub my face against my sleeve and somehow find words. “I wanted to be the first face you saw when you woke up.”
He tries to smile. It looks painful. “Always looking after me.” His eyelids flutter, heavy with the weight of whatever cocktail they’ve given him. “Sorry, honey. They’ve got me on this new pain med and it’s… very…”
The rest trails off into a soft snore.
The machines keep their steady rhythm, as if nothing has changed.
But everything has.
