I wake up to rain tapping the window like it's got something urgent to say.
Outside, the sky is the color of old dishwater and the air smells like wet pavement and cold steel. I stretch, yawn, and fumble for my phone, which is buried somewhere beneath last night's hoodie. 10:47 AM. No messages. Just a few unimportant notifications, none of which manage to wake me up all the way.
I stumble into the kitchen still half-asleep, hair a mess and socks mismatched. There's a half-finished cup of coffee on the counter from yesterday—black, bitter, forgotten. I dump it in the sink, rinse the mug, and brew a fresh pot. My father's not home. He left early, as usual. Said he had errands to run. No detail, no timeline. Just kissed the top of my head like I was still six and left.
I didn't question it.
He's been doing that a lot lately—leaving before I wake up, returning after I go to bed. Sometimes it feels like he's becoming more of a shadow than a person.
Still, today feels normal. Rainy, quiet, lazy. I pull on jeans, tie my boots, and walk to the corner market to grab something for lunch. The guy at the register—Tony—nods at me like he always does. He never asks how I'm doing. I think that's why I like him.
"Bag?" he asks in a monotone.
"No, I'm good."
I tuck the sandwich and chips under my arm and head out, the rain drizzling steadily now. I keep my phone tucked deep in my jacket pocket, humming something under my breath as I walk.
The city smells different in the rain—colder, cleaner. Like even the filth gets washed off just a little.
I get home around noon and collapse onto the couch, kicking my shoes off and grabbing the remote. Something about a documentary is playing. A woman narrates softly about wolves in the Arctic. I'm half-listening, chewing slowly, wondering if I should text Milo and see if he wants to hang out.
My phone buzzes.
I glance down. Unknown Number.
I hesitate. Something inside me goes rigid. Most spam calls get filtered out. This one slipped through.
I let it ring. It nearly stops.
Then I answer.
"Hello?"
A pause. A breath. Then a voice.
"Is this Everett Knight?"
My spine straightens. "Yes. Who's this?"
"This is Dr. Marshall from St. Julian's Medical Center. I'm calling about your father, McAllister Knight."
My heart doesn't drop right away. It stalls—like it's trying to figure out what's about to happen before it reacts.
"What about him?" I ask, trying to sound calm.
"He was brought in approximately forty minutes ago after suffering what appears to have been a cardiac event."
"Cardiac—what? Wait, what are you saying?"
"A heart attack," she says gently. "He collapsed in a meeting. Paramedics arrived quickly and managed to stabilize him before transport. He's currently undergoing treatment, but I wanted to reach you as soon as possible."
The world tips.
I stand up without realizing it, the phone pressed so tightly to my ear my hand aches.
"Is he—Is he okay?"
"He's alive," she says, but that's all she offers. "You should come as soon as you can. We're at the Eastside wing. Someone will meet you in the main lobby."
"I—I'll be there," I say quickly, already scrambling to grab my coat, shoving my feet into damp boots, nearly tripping over the coffee table.
The call ends. The rain outside has turned to a heavier downpour, like the sky's punishing the earth for something.
⸻
The cab ride is too long. The driver tries to talk to me once, but the look I give him makes him go quiet. I'm gripping my phone so hard my knuckles ache. I keep checking the clock. Every red light feels like a death sentence.
When we pull up to St. Julian's, the world looks sterile and wrong. Glass doors. White tile. People moving too fast or not fast enough.
I rush inside, the smell of antiseptic hitting me like a punch. Cold. Clean. Too clean.
"Excuse me," I say to the woman at the desk, out of breath. "My name is Everett Knight. I got a call—my dad was brought in. McAllister Knight."
She types something. Nods. "He's in the Eastside cardiac wing. Dr. Marshall will meet you there. Take the elevator to the fourth floor."
I nod quickly. "Thanks."
The elevator ride is silent except for the hum of electricity. My hands won't stop shaking.
My father—McAllister Knight—is not supposed to collapse. He's supposed to command. He's supposed to endure. He's supposed to be invincible.
And yet here I am, walking too fast down a hallway that smells like bleach and sounds like heart monitors. Nurses glance up as I pass, then quickly look away.
A woman in a white coat approaches.
"Mr. Knight?"
"Yes," I croak.
"I'm Dr. Marshall. Your father is stable. He's in the cardiac ICU right now. We were able to relieve the blockage, but this wasn't minor." Her voice is clinical, but kind. "He'll need to be monitored closely."
I blink at her, the words swimming. "Can I see him?"
She nods. "Not long. Just a few minutes."
⸻
The room is dim. Machines beep steadily. My father lies in the hospital bed looking smaller than I've ever seen him.
The tubes, the wires, the oxygen mask—it's all wrong.
His chest rises and falls. Slowly. Weakly.
"Dad..." I whisper, stepping forward.
His eyes flutter open, just barely.
I expect him to say something cold. Something sharp. Something sarcastic. But he doesn't. He just looks at me like he's sorry. For everything.
"You scared the hell out of me," I choke out.
His hand moves, barely. I take it.
For a man like McAllister Knight, even this feels like vulnerability. The way he grips my fingers like he's grounding himself, like I'm the one who's strong now.
"I'm fine," he rasps, voice dry. "Just... tired."
"No. Don't do that. Don't downplay it."
He gives a weak smile. "Don't cry, Everett."
"I'm not crying."
I am.
He blinks slowly. "I'll be okay."
"You better be."
"I just... need rest," he says, his voice slipping into something softer. "Things are moving faster now. Sooner than I thought."
I frown. "What does that mean?"
He doesn't answer. His eyes close again, heavy with exhaustion.
"Dad," I whisper. "What things?"
But he's asleep before he can tell me.
⸻
I leave the room quietly and sit outside in the hallway, staring at the wall, trying to breathe through the numbness in my chest. The rain is still falling, but I can't hear it anymore. All I can hear is the monitors behind that door and the unspoken questions circling my head like vultures.
Something's coming. Something he's known about.
Something he hasn't told me.
And now I have no idea if he ever will.