“Yeah,” he said. “Even you.”
He shuffled into my room and eased into the chair by my bed.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said.
“Hey,” I said, already crying.
He took my hand. “You know you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, right?”
“That’s kind of sad,” I joked weakly.
He huffed a laugh. “Still true.”
“I don’t know what to do without you,” I whispered.
His eyes went shiny. “You’re gonna live. You hear me? You’re gonna live.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know,” he said. “Me too.”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to say more, then just shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“For things I should’ve told you.” He leaned over and kissed my forehead. “Get some sleep, Hannah.”
He died the following morning.
The funeral was black clothes, bad coffee, and people saying, “He was a good man,” like that covered everything.
Back at the house, it felt wrong.
Ray’s boots by the door. His mug in the sink. The basil drooping in the window.
That afternoon, Mrs. Patel knocked and came in. She sat on my bed, eyes red, and held out an envelope
