Brody took her wet coat and hung it on the back of a chair by the door. Stepping up to the bedside, she took in her father’s continued deterioration. His skin looked tighter, almost translucent. His chest rose with a wheeze and deflated with a shudder. How long could he live like this? His life was nothing but misery. Death would be a kindness for him, but the Colonel would never go gently. It was his nature to scratch and claw for one more breath. His fighting spirit was the one trait dementia couldn’t defeat.

His eyelids fluttered and opened. He blinked between her and Brody a few times. Several seconds passed before he focused on her. His lips moved. No words emerged, but his expression changed. Once recognition took hold, his gaze never left her face, as if Brody weren’t there. On the bed, the Colonel’s fingers curled in a Come here gesture. Hannah reached out and took his hand. Brody moved a chair behind her, and she lowered her body onto the seat. Brody’s hand on her shoulder grounded her.

The Colonel’s eyes closed again. Every breath seemed as if it could be his last. But an hour later, the pattern eased into deep sleep. His hand relaxed and released Hannah’s. She let go.

In the hallway, Brody held her coat up. Hannah slipped her arms into the sleeves.

He put an arm around her. “That was rough.”

“Yes.” She rested her head on his shoulder, grateful for his support.

They passed the nurses’ station, and Hannah asked, “You’ll call me if he gets any worse?” Her chest constricted with the thought of the Colonel dying alone.

“Of course,” the nurse said.

Brody led her out of the building. Hannah lifted her face to the light rain. The mist refreshed her hot skin.

“Do they know how long he has?” Brody asked.

Hannah sniffed. “His body was ready to give up about a year ago.”

“But he won’t let go.”

“He can’t,” she said simply. “It’s not good or bad. It’s simply the way it is.” When the Colonel was ready, he wouldn’t ease into death. He’d march.

Just as she must concede control of her father’s condition, it was also time to accept all the good and bad from her childhood and move on. Hardship had molded her into a resilient person. The training drills and lessons from her childhood were crazy, but without them, would she have survived her encounter with Mick Arnette? Probably not.

“I’m probably never going to be a warm or fuzzy person,” she said.

Brody raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Where did that come from?”

“I was just thinking about my father and my childhood. Grant has my mother’s innate kindness. My father is a hard man, and I’m more like him than I’d like to admit.”