32. Lance #3
His name is Grant. He doesn’t look surprised to see me, more like he’s been expecting me eventually. He shakes my hand and tells me my aunt left explicit instructions with the board that family members were always welcome at Hearthside at any time, with full access if they wanted it.
He gives me an unhurried, thorough tour. He’s not trying to impress me or manage what I’m seeing. He just simply shows me the place.
By the time we get to his office, I’ve already seen most of what I need to see. We discuss the issues Hearthside is currently facing. He thinks the fact that I’ve dropped by out of the blue suggests I think there are indeed some.
One of their major recurring grants didn’t get renewed this year.
The contract changed, the renewal fell through the cracks, and sixty thousand dollars that was budgeted simply didn’t arrive.
The gap is being covered by drawing down the operating reserve, which is now sitting at thirty-one percent of where it should be and still dropping.
There’s also the incident backlog. Falls, medication near-misses, family complaints about communication failures during final hours. Months of reports sitting in a queue that nobody’s working through. Nobody’s following up, identifying patterns, or actioning anything.
Then there’s the staffing model. Hearthside was built around primary nursing, patients seeing the same nurses consistently throughout their care. Right now they’re running short enough that agency staff are filling gaps everywhere.
On the way out, I stop in the doorway and check the corridor. Late afternoon light comes in pale and low through the windows. A nurse moves quietly from one room to the next. I decide this place needs me.
I call George the second I got in the car. He picks up on the first ring.
“Hey,” he greets, and I smile. I can’t help it. “Everything okay? How’s your mom?”
“A little better. Smaller, but still herself. Giving the nurses hell in the best way.”
“Good.” The line goes quiet for a second. “How are you holding up?”
“Still figuring that out.” I lean back against the headrest, closing my eyes. “How’s the shop?”
“Handling it,” he replies, but there’s a weariness underneath that makes me wish I could physically reach him through the phone. “Place feels too fucking quiet without you in it, though. Nobody here to argue with me about the goddamn radio station.”
I bark a laugh. “Poor baby. Can’t handle it now that I’m not there busting your balls every five minutes?”
“Something like that,” he mutters, but there’s a smile in it too. “You sound wiped. You eating properly?”
“Yeah, yeah. You too, okay? Don’t work too damn hard.” I rub the back of my neck. “Tell me about your day.”
He tells me about the restorations and a kid from the vocational program who’s actually showing real promise with bodywork.
Little details in that deep voice I could listen to for hours.
I tell him how the city looks the same but feels completely different now.
Normal things. The texture of each other’s lives.
Then I tell him about Hearthside. George listens without interrupting.
“So you’re staying a bit longer,” he concludes.
“A few more days. Maybe a week.” I scratch my eyes, feeling a bit tired now. “It doesn’t feel right to leave it the way it is.”
He takes his time answering, and when he does, it’s a bit soft. “Do what you have to do.”
“I’ll be back soon,” I promise. “I just need to sort a few things out here first.”
“I know. Your aunt would’ve liked knowing you went. Just get back so I can ignore you in person.”
I laugh softly, the sound cracking with how much I mean the next words. “Miss giving you a hard time already. Miss a lot of things about you, actually.”
“Yeah?” His voice drops a little. “Me too.”
We stay on the phone in silence for a sweet while. We’ve talked to each other basically every day for years that my brain protests unreasonably at the thought of spending a week away from him. I don’t like this feeling at all.
“I think it’d be nice to wake up next to you tomorrow morning. Too bad you’re not here,” I say, a little uncharacteristically shy.
I hear him exhale. “Your ridiculous bedhead. And the way you hog the covers. What I wouldn’t give to have your burnt toast and bacon with eggs tomorrow.”
“It’s only a few days, yeah?” My voice comes out thinner than I want it to. “I know I’m a brilliant cook, and you love eating it. I love making it for you too. I never make breakfast for anyone else. Well, more like ‘I can’t really make breakfast, period’.”
George chuckles, but it sounds strained, like he’s pushing through the same ache I feel. “Which is why it’s fucking special.” He pauses, speaking slower and almost reluctant. “Get your shit sorted and come home, Lance.”
I grew up in Seattle, where my family is, where everything I spent the last ten years running from is waiting for me to stop running.
But home is somewhere else. Home is an auto shop in Spring Valley, a man who picks up on the first ring and doesn’t need me to explain why something matters before he takes it seriously.
I start the engine and pull out into the street.
A week, hopefully less. Then I’ll be back where I belong.