Page 70 of Slots & Sticks
Bo rockets off. She’s so nimble that, when the ball bounces off the stack of boxes waiting in the corner with all the unsorted books Camden bought for me, she’s able to catch it mid-flight. She chomps it a few times, then prances off with her prize and takes it into her crate for what quickly becomes a very annoying squeak session. Skinbad whines and drops into another play bow, but Bo happily squeaks away.
“Okay, we’ve found Bo’s favorite.” I dig through the box of dog toys we’ve acquired over the years in the hopes of finding something that will hold Skinbad’s interest. There’s a miniatureplush Einstein that looks more or less untouched by previous pups. I hold it up as an offering.
Skinbad pounces. He snatches the toy, takes it to his crate, and sets about tearing Einstein’s hair out of his head.
“Great,” I deadpan. “We have a winner. Don’t eat that, okay?”
My phone rings. I reach for it without looking at the ID, since I’m now concerned that Einstein is a choking hazard. “Hi, what’s up?” I expect to hear my father’s voice, or maybe Cam’s.
“Miss Shaw?” a woman asks. “I’m calling from the hospital regarding your father.”
My hand clutches around my phone. My vision blurs. Oh, no. No, I can’t go through this again. Through a tight throat, I croak, “Is he…? Did he…?”
The woman’s voice softens. “He’s doing great, hon. I’m calling because he can come home. We’ll help you arrange for a nurse and PT to come check in on him, and he’ll require regular appointments, but he’s reached the point in his recovery where we think he’ll be more comfortable at home.”
“Oh.” I close my eyes and sink back into the couch cushions. This is quicker than they originally thought, so I’m not as prepared as I’d like. “That’s fantastic. It’ll be good to have him back.”
“Do you have an accessible space set up for him? We recommend setting up a hospital bed, and he may need to use a wheelchair for a while.”
I frown. I didn’t think about that. I have the guest room all set up for him, but there’s no way he’ll be able to get a wheelchair through that space. “Is a hospital bed better than a regular bed?” I vaguely remember one of the doctors mentioning this, but it didn’t sink in at the time.
“It’ll make it easier for him to come and go, and to adjust so that he doesn’t hurt himself or get bed sores. If he rolls out ofbed in his sleep, or falls while he’s trying to get in or out of bed, he could hurt himself again.”
“Right. We don’t want that. I’ll arrange that.”
We go over a few other details, and she tells me who I can rent a bed from. I call right away and arrange for a rental as well as a delivery. No big deal, except that I don’t currently have a place to set everything up. I suppose I could put it in the living room, but it’s too easy to picture Dad tripping over one of the dogs, or Bo jumping up on his burns, or him falling as he tries to navigate down the hall to the bathroom. Because I know how quickly things can collapse. How fast a good thing can slip through tired fingers. The guest room has an en suite bathroom, and the door can be closed for privacy.
I feel guilty relying on Camden so much, but I can’t do everything myself at the last minute. I text him to see if he’s free today, and let him know the good news about Dad’s discharge. It’s a short text, but even that takes energy I don’t have. Ever since the call, my brain’s been bouncing between logistics, grief, and a sense of doom I can’t quite explain. The discharge papers already hit my email, and after scanning the information, I still don’t know what half of it means. There’s a detailed instruction list, but my neurodivergent brain keeps defaulting to everything, all at once.
I don’t want to fail him. Not like I failed her.
Be there in half an hour, he texts back.
I clutch my phone to my chest. I’m worried that I’m becoming too reliant on him, but I really do need his help.
A death-squeak shocks me back into the present. Bo has mangled the Death Star beyond all recognition. I get up to retrieve the cracked rubber ball, now thoroughly divested of fuzz, and a soggy, slobber-covered, newly bald Einstein.
“You’re menaces. Both of you.” I give the dogs my most intimidating scowl.
Bo yawns and lays her head on her paws. Skinbad wags his tail. At least they don’t try to deny it.
* * *
When Camden said he was coming, I didn’t realize he’d be bringing the whole team with him.
“What do you need us to do?” Tristan asks.
Skinbad is barking his brains out from one corner, while Bo weaves between our guests to nudge each of them with her damp nose like the consummate hostess. I cover the ear closest to Skinbad and point to the downstairs hallway. “I need help clearing out the guest room. We’re putting in a different bed, and the setup needs to accommodate a wheelchair.”
Lenyx whistles. “Ooh, yeah, that’ll make things tricky. Any idea where you want us to move everything?”
“It can go in his office for now,” I say over Skinbad’s siren song. “Nobody will be using it for a while.”
“Shoes off,” Camden reminds the guys.
There’s a mild kerfuffle as shoes are kicked off, and the guys troop off down the hallway. Camden hangs back to slip an arm around my waist. “How are you feeling about all this?”
“Um.” I play with a lock of my hair, twirling it too fast. “Nervous, but good. I mean, executive function is good. Emotionally? Kind of glitching.”
