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Kelsey crossed to him and bent to kiss his papery cheek. “Good morning, Truman. I hear you had an eventful night.”

“Overreaction,” he waved a hand dismissively. “A bit of indigestion.”

Mac made a sound of disagreement. “Angina, Grandad. Bad enough that the nurse had to give you nitroglycerin. And morphine.”

“Details,” Truman muttered.

Kelsey set her professional face in place, though her heart ached at the visible decline. “Mind if I check a few things?”

“If it will make my grandson stop hovering like a mother hen, by all means.”

As Kelsey took his vitals, the three fell into conversation about Noah’s field trip today to the Portland aquarium while carefully avoiding the elephant in the room. Truman’s blood pressure was lower than before, and his oxygen saturation was concerning.

“Your color’s a bit off today,” she said gently, removing the blood pressure cuff. “How’s your breathing?”

Truman sighed. “To be honest? Not great. Feels like I’m climbing a mountain just going to the damned bathroom.”

“I noticed,” Kelsey said. She glanced at Mac, who stood by the window, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “I think a wheelchair might help conserve your energy for moving around the house. And oxygen support throughout the day, not just at night.”

“A wheelchair,” Truman repeated, staring down at his hands. The momentary silence felt heavy with unspoken meaning.

Mac cleared his throat. “It’s just to help with the longer trips, Grandad. From the bedroom to—”

“I know what it means, son.” Truman’s voice was quiet but firm. He looked up, first at Mac, then at Kelsey. The clarity in his faded blue eyes was startling against his ashen complexion. “This is it, isn’t it?”

The directness of the question hung in the air. Kelsey felt Mac’s eyes on her, silently pleading for reassurance she couldn’t honestly give.

“Yes,” she said softly.

Truman nodded. “How long?”

Kelsey moved to sit on the ottoman beside his chair and took one of his hands in hers. “It’s difficult to say exactly. You may start to have more episodes like last night, which tells us your heart is giving out.”

“How long, Lass?”

“Grandad,” Mac’s voice broke.

“Weeks, not months,” Kelsey said.

“It’s alright, boy,” Truman said, extending his hand toward his grandson. “Come here.”

Mac crossed the room slowly, as if each step required immense effort. He took his grandfather’s offered hand then sank to one knee beside the chair. The set of his shoulders had collapsed, revealing a vulnerability Kelsey had never seen in him before.

“I thought we had more time,” Mac said, his voice rough.

“I’ve had a good run, haven’t I? Haven’t we?” Truman squeezed Mac’s hand. “Ninety-five years. Can’t complain about that.”

“Still not enough,” Mac whispered.

Kelsey felt tears burning behind her eyes at the naked grief on Mac’s face. His usual stoic expression had crumbled and left behind something raw and unguarded.

“The wheelchair is a good idea,” Truman said after a moment, turning back to Kelsey. “And the oxygen. Whatever makes this easier.” He paused, his breathing labored despite his attempt at nonchalance. “For all of us.”

Kelsey nodded. Her professional mask was the only thing helping her maintain composure. “I’ll arrange for both to be delivered today. And we should adjust your medication schedule again. The nitro helped last night?”

“Like magic,” Truman confirmed. “Awful after-taste, though.”

“We’ll keep it close at hand,” she said, making notes in his chart.