He looked at the IV.
"How bad?"
"Doctors say treatable."
"That's good."
"It is."
He nodded.
Silence again.
The old version of him would have filled it.
Asked treatment names.
Demanded specialist information.
Called people.
Started solving.
He kept still.
His daughter noticed.
"You haven't asked what they're doing."
His mouth twitched.
"I want to."
"I know."
"I figured you'd tell me if you want me knowing."
Something in her face softened.
Barely.
That tiny change nearly destroyed him.
She looked toward his vest.
"You kept the bear."
He touched the patch.
"Had it before you left."
"You used to tell people I picked it."
"You did."
"I was twelve."
"You had good taste."
"Questionable."
He smiled.
Then she saw the trembling in his hand.
"Dad."
He looked up.
Her voice was softer.
"Don't cry like that."
He wiped his face roughly.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"Allergies."
"In September?"
"Hospital dust."
She laughed.
Really laughed.
Then she cried too.
Neither crossed the space immediately.
That mattered.
Eventually she held out her hand.
Her father stared at it.
Then placed his palm beneath hers.
She curled her fingers around one of his.
For a while, that was enough.
They talked for an hour.
Not nine years.
An hour.
He learned his granddaughter loved science.
Butterflies.
Purple.
Pancakes.
She hated peas.
Loved dogs but was afraid of large ones until she had met a therapy Labrador.
The braces were new.
The walker was not.
She could climb stairs with rails on good days.
She became furious when people pushed her chair or walker without asking.
The biker nodded carefully.
His daughter noticed.
"You're taking notes in your head."
"Maybe."
"Don't turn her into a project."
The warning was immediate.
Old fear entered her voice.
Her father felt it.
He lowered his eyes.
"Okay."
That one word changed the room more than an argument would have.
His daughter studied him.
"You mean it?"
"Trying to."
"That's different."
"I know."
She exhaled.
"The school situation shouldn't have happened."