Chapter Four
Dot
The day after the memorial, Camden swings by.
I turned in my notice for the part-time shifts—Dante’s check buys me time to do the job I already had: running my parents’ life and the house.
Bills, contractors, tour logistics, the dogs, the “just one thing” list—now plus a dad in the burn unit who will be weeks from coming home.
About twenty percent of his body took the worst of it—mostly his arms and chest since he was trying to save my mother.
His skin is wrapped in thick white dressings.
They advised me about the swelling, about the raw red patches that will eventually scar pale and shiny.
About the pain that never really leaves, even when the wounds close.
When I visit, I have to wear a gown, gloves, and a mask.
The hiss of the ventilator fills the silence between us.
I talk anyway—about the flowers that arrived at the house, about the fans camping outside the hospital, about how Knova promised to help with the dogs’ ashes.
His eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t wake.
His nurse warned me before I went in that he wouldn’t look like himself yet.
She was right.
Dad’s always been larger than life. Six-two, lean muscle from decades on the ice. The kind of man who could silence a locker room by walking through it. Every photo of him—holding me on the boards after practice, arm slung over Mom’s shoulder, grinning with his helmet on—shows that easy strength.
His head is shaved for grafts, one eye sealed, arms slung in white, and his arms—those strong arms—are all bandages. The room hums; he doesn’t.
The doctors say he’ll skate again someday if he wants to, but coaching isn’t about skating. It’s pointing, drawing plays, writing on whiteboards, shaking a rookie’s shoulder when he needs it. It’s touch. And right now his arms can’t even hold a cup of water steady.
I tell myself he’ll heal. That he’ll find a way to be the man he was, even if it looks different.
But as I stand there watching the monitor blink in time with his heartbeat, I can’t stop thinking that the man on the bed and the one who used to take slap shots in the driveway are two different people.
And I don’t know how to introduce myself to this new one.
So I plan. I think about the house. I’ve been the default household manager for years; I know how to do crisis by spreadsheet.
The bedroom will have to move downstairs.
I’ll clear out the study and get help moving furniture.
A ramp will need to replace the back step out onto the patio.
He’ll need easy access to the bathroom and kitchen, space for a therapist to work with him once the grafts heal.
And then there’s Mom’s stuff. I’m not ready to part with any of it, but the thought of him coming home to her perfume still trapped in the curtains feels cruel. I’ll box up her things, one drawer at a time, so he can breathe without tripping over ghosts.
Every heartbeat feels like a promise I can’t keep: I’ll get the house ready. I’ll make it safe. I’ll bring him home.
Even if the home we get back isn’t the one we lost.
I’m still staring at the checklist in my head when Camden walks in and kicks the door shut behind him. He doesn’t say anything at first—just sets two iced coffees on the counter and waits. That stare of his, all quiet pressure and zero judgment, pulls me out of my spiral.
My friend fixes me with one of his piercing stares. “You haven’t driven since the crash, right?”
I bite my lip. I didn’t realize that he’d noticed.
“You can always call me if you need me to bring you something. Or we could run some errands now. Make sure you have enough groceries.”
After grabbing my iced coffee, I step outside into the driveway as he trails behind. Without saying anything, I slip into the passenger seat.
“Seems like the Paps have backed off,” Camden says once we’re in the car.
“They got their fill at the memorial.” I rest my head against the window. The city blurs past, glass and sunlight and too many memories. Funny how the thought of driving myself anywhere makes my chest tighten, but sitting next to him feels like the first full inhale I’ve taken in days.
We’ve only gone about a mile when my eyes snap open. “Cam? Can we stop by the hospital”
“Sure.” He changes lanes without hesitation, the blinker ticking as steadily as his voice.
“I mean, you don’t have to. I don’t want to waste your whole day.”
“I’m good. Don’t worry about me. It’s the off-season, remember?” His mouth curves, calm and easy, like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m going to owe you dinner after all this,” I say, trying for lightness that doesn’t quite land.
Camden glances over, brief but steady. “You don’t owe me anything, Dot. I’m here because I want to be.”
That line sits between us like a gift I don’t know how to unwrap. Nobody wants to be around me right now. I cry without warning, lose track of hours, and forget to eat. Yet he keeps showing up.
The hospital looms into view, white and sterile against the desert sky. My stomach tightens. The air smells like rain the same way it did that night.
We park in the same corner of the UMC lot and walk toward the entrance. The automatic doors sigh open, and the first hit of antiseptic burns my throat. A few nurses recognize me and nod me through without a word.
I expect Camden to hang back, to wait near the elevators. But when I glance over, he’s right there—silent, solid, a half-step behind me. This will be the first time he’s seen Dad since the crash.
He doesn’t ask if I’m ready. He matches his stride to mine, like he’s decided that until I can stand on my own again, he’ll be my gravity.
Dad’s asleep when we arrive.
Even after everything, I’m never prepared to see him in this way. I keep waiting to get used to it. To walk in and not feel like the world’s been scraped raw. But every time I see his hands, I feel the agony all over again.
The smell hits first—antiseptic and burned plastic, something sharp and sterile trying to smother the scent of what really happened. Machines whisper and beep around him like a lullaby meant for someone else’s father.
Camden stops beside me. His breath catches, a sound so soft I might’ve missed it if I wasn’t listening for something—anything—to break the silence.
He’s known my dad his whole life. Ranger Shaw, the human glacier. The man who could skate backward faster than most players could move forward. The man who could fix a leak, break up a fight, or shoulder a team’s losing streak without ever raising his voice.
Now his body is barely recognizable.
His legs and torso are hidden under the blanket, but his arms hang suspended in slings, bandaged thick and white.
Tubes snake from his chest and nose, each one proof that his body is trying to remember how to live.
His face is swollen and bruised, the skin stretched shiny where the burns are worst. One eye is sealed shut, and the other is fighting to stay open even in sleep.
Cam’s hand twitches as if he wants to reach for me, but he stops halfway. I take it anyway. The warmth of his palm anchors me while the rest of me starts to splinter.
Every time I see Dad, I realize how close I came to losing both of them. To being an orphan. And every time, I break in a new way.
The sound I make isn’t a cry so much as an unraveling. Camden’s arm wraps around me, and I fold into him, sobs shaking out of me until they finally wake Dad. His good eye opens a sliver.
“Hey, sweetpea.” His voice is a rasp, thin and wet. “What are you doing here?”
I scrub my face against my sleeve and somehow find words. “I wanted to be the first face you saw when you woke up.”
He tries to smile. It looks painful. “Always looking after me.” His eyelids flutter, heavy with the weight of whatever cocktail they’ve given him. “Sorry, honey. They’ve got me on this new pain med and it’s… very…”
The rest trails off into a soft snore.
The machines keep their steady rhythm, as if nothing has changed.
But everything has.
I lean close and whisper, “You don’t have to apologize.” Then to Camden, quieter still, “We should go. I don’t want to tire him out.”
Cam shakes his head. “You don’t have to apologize, either.”
Something in the way he says it—quiet, sure—makes my chest ache all over again.
If I could, I’d stay here forever, holding him up by sheer will.
But all I can do is take one last look at my father—the man who taught me how to love fiercely and without fear—and let Camden guide me back into the hall, where the world smells like bleach and loss.
I hold it together until the car door shuts. The click of it feels like a gun going off inside my chest. My core hollows, and then everything spills—tears, hiccupped gasps, the kind of crying that burns behind your eyes and in your throat all at once.
Dad’s no worse than he was this morning. They’re managing his pain. The logical part of me knows all that, but my body doesn’t care. My body thinks it’s back in the hallway outside the ICU, hearing the word burns for the first time.
Camden drives without a word. No music. No small talk. Just his hands steady on the wheel, his profile carved out by the light streaming in through the window. I hate the silence, and I’m grateful for it in the same breath. I can fall apart without having to perform my grief for him.
I sneak glances at him through wet lashes. He’s still here. Still choosing to be here. Not because he wants something from me. Not because he needs me to be okay. Just… because.
I didn’t know people like that still existed.
I’ve never really understood why. I used to wonder if he liked me, but I’ve let that go.
As far as I can tell, he doesn’t date. Never a girlfriend, never a puck bunny in his lap at the Puck Drop.
I told myself that meant he was simply another hockey guy who couldn’t commit.