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Too bad I fucking hate it now.

If the song is what costs me Bea, no amount of streams or radio play will make it worth writing. But the fans are excited, Apex is more excited, and apparently, my role is to keep smiling while everyone congratulates me on turning the worst decision I’ve made in years into a successful comeback.

Dance, monkey. Dance.

The name on the screen is the one person I will always answer, no matter what else is happening.

I stop the recording.

“Mabel, hey. How are you?”

“Hello, my boy.” Her voice is steady, but there’s something underneath it I recognize immediately. “I’m afraid I need you to come and help me.”

I’m already on my feet, reaching for my keys.

“Where are you?”

“Mountain Springs General Hospital. Room fourteen. Can you please go to my house and bring me some clothes and my iPad?”

“Are you ok? What happened?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I just need to stay a few days. I’ll explain when you get here.” A brief pause. “Don’t speed.”

The entire drive to Mabel’s condo, my brain supplies possibilities she deliberately refused to give me.

Was it another fall? A seizure? The lesion pressing against something it wasn’t pressing against before?

By the time I reach the building, I’ve mentally killed her three different ways and spent money I don’t have fixing all of them.

Her insurance is good, but good insurance still has deductibles, exclusions, and entire departments devoted to explaining why the thing keeping someone alive isn’t technically covered. The Apex advance isn’t signed yet. The Trust money won’t release until May. Even if both arrive, the money is meant to cover the assessment, get the band moving again, and repair some of the damage I’ve spent months promising everyone I can fix.

It won’t cover all of that and serious medical care.

I shove the thought away as I unlock her door.

The condo looks exactly as it did the last time I was here. A mug beside her chair. Reading glasses folded on top of a crossword. One slipper abandoned near the kitchen like she stepped out of it halfway through walking.

The normality of it makes my chest hurt.

I find her overnight bag and start filling it without any real system. Four pairs of pajamas. Underwear. Socks. The blue cardigan and the brown cardigan too, because she might change her mind. Slippers, toiletries, three chargers, her iPad and the paperback sitting beside her bed.

Then I go back and add another sweater.

I have no idea what a sixty-year-old woman requires for several days in the hospital. I’d rather bring half the condo than have her ask for something I left behind.

“Callum?”

I turn.

Kim is standing in the open doorway, wearing an exercise visor despite the fact she does not appear to have exercised.

“I saw the ambulance,” she says. “Is Mabel all right?” Kim presses a hand to her chest. “Oh, that poor woman.”

“I’m not sure,” I say quickly. “I’m on my way to the hospital now.”

“Let me know if you need anything, dear.” Kim gives me a solemn expression.

I thank her, then grab the bag and leave.