“Coming, son.” As Harry climbed the final steps and entered his flat, worries for his father’s medical situation pressed upon him.

The scent of pine cleaner tickled his nose. God bless Mum. She had aired out the place in preparation for his return. A shepherd’s pie sat on the kitchen worktop with baking instructions written in his mother’s handwriting, yet another piece of thoughtfulness.

Rather than bother her, he texted Nick. What’s going on with Dad?

Nick: At John Radcliffe’s cardiothoracic unit. They’re prepping Gavin for surgery. Ninety percent blockage.

Harry froze at the words.

Not Dad. To him, Dad was invincible. But this attack had woken Harry to the fact that heart problems ran in the family. His own paternal grandfather had died at a young age from one.

“Dad, Dad, Dad,” Sammy chanted. “Come see what I made.” Sammy motioned toward his bedroom.

Like a sleepwalker, Harry followed his son, his duffel straps still in hand. Sheets and blankets from Sammy’s bed lay draped across his dresser and desk.

“See my new fort?”

“It’s brilliant.” Harry ran his fingers through Sammy’s hair, momentarily pushing down the cowlick.

If Dad had gone straight into surgery, he was a ticking time bomb. What if his body couldn’t handle the extra duress during the operation?

Early morning sunlight filtered through the hospital blinds when Harry entered his father’s assigned room. The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor filled the space. Mum, the family rock in every storm, sat crumpled in a chair, her eyes suspiciously red.

Harry took two steps into the chamber and stopped. The person in that bed couldn’t be his father. The hospital had made a mistake. This man was swollen beyond recognition and connected to an alarming number of tubes. His father had always been physically tough, never sick a day in his life—the man everyone called when they needed a strong arm and a helping hand. This patient was a pale, breathing corpse.

During Harry’s military career, he had visited the hospital wards of his injured men, had written letters, called relatives, and consoled grieving families of lost comrades. None of that had prepared him for this.

He averted his eyes and placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “I’m here to spell you off, Mum,” he said softly, so as not to wake his father.

“I can’t leave him; you know that.” Alice rose to her feet and gave Harry a hug.

“You have to eat.” Harry pressed two tenners into her hand. “You’ve got to keep up your strength.”

Mum accepted the money. With a worried frown in her usually merry blue eyes, she slipped into the hallway.

Harry sat, picked up the remote, and turned the telly to BBC World News. A caption on the bottom of the screen caught his attention.