Page 117 of The Storm

“Do not ‘Liz’ me with that tone. Our daughter is in the hospital with a life-threatening condition. I will do whatever it takes.”

Dad sends her a long look, but he doesn’t say anything.

THIRTY-FIVE

INDY

I sneakout of bed in the middle of the night. Nick doesn’t wake up. He mumbles something in his sleep, but then he settles again when I slide my fingers through his hair.

I resist the urge to climb back in next to him and sneak out of the room, closing the door quietly behind myself.

I’m tired, but I haven’t been able to fall asleep. There’s a restless churning in the pit of my stomach, and I can’t shake it.

Everything about that scene in the hospital was weird. I can’t put my finger on what exactly makes my thoughts circle back to it over and over again. It’s more a feeling. But it’s the kind that’s like acid, just bubbling away, burning its way through my insides.

I make my way down the stairs, the steps cool underneath my bare feet. I’m not even fully downstairs when I hear the tense voices coming from the office.

I hesitate for a second, but then I sneak forward. My parents’ voices become clearer with every step I take.

“…keep pushing it forward,” my dad says. “Especially with what you’re asking him to do.”

I’ve never heard him sound so stiff. Dad is laid back to the point where it sometimes borders on being absent, because when inspiration strikes, his art takes precedence. Always has.

“We need to tell them,” Dad says. “It’s high time. If anything, this is a sign.”

“Not everything is a sign, Gus,” Mom says in an exasperated voice.

“We need to tell them.”

I push the door open. “Tell us what?”

They both jerk around to look at me.

Dad recovers first.

“Gus,” Mom says with clear warning in her voice.

He grabs a paper from the desk and holds it out toward me.

“Gus!” Mom snaps.

“I’m sorry for all of this,” Dad says, holding my gaze. “It all got out of hand, and… We didn’t know how to do this any better.”

There’s a sickening feel to a heartbeat that goes into overdrive too fast.

There’s a moment when your eyes move over the words, but your brain refuses to process them.

For what?it asks you.Why bother? This is ridiculous. A waste of resources. No. No, thank you. I’ll pass. Get back to me when you have something reasonable to discuss.

But the paper in my hands is very real. And the words look real, too.

I read it. Over and over again.

Thoughts race around in my head.

I look up.

“What is this?” My voice is a croak.