Brock didn’t say anything else. His shifter family was there for him no matter what. Even when he tried to push them away, they wouldn’t have it. That was something he could always count on.
Brock got barely any sleep in that waiting room. No one else did, except maybe for Zeke, who could sleep standing up, and Mr. Wittfield, who let out a gurgled snore every so often. Brock leaned his head on the wall behind him and tried to relax. Full on sleep would be unlikely, but maybe he could rest his mind for a little bit.
Dreams came on suddenly. It was ten years ago and he was in Hawaii again. The car wreck that killed his father played on repeat, a never ending film clip of the sudden bang, being thrown from the car, waking up with Theriona leaning over him, and breaking down when she told him his father couldn’t be saved. Each time the movie started over Brock was in a different spot, standing and watching the events. He sat in the grass and saw himself flung from the car. He leaned underneath a tree and watched the vehicle roll over and over before coming to a stop. He stood in the middle of the road and watched the headlights coming around the bend, shining from the side of the lines they shouldn’t have been on.
And the woman...
She moved slowly and fluidly, gliding across the terrain like she was made of smoke. He had come to learn she was the stuff of myth, except completely and undeniably real. What was done to Brock was the same thing that had been done to many other men. Under her hand, people had been saved—or cursed, depending on how you looked at it. Brock had never allowed himself to question the woman’s act. It was too late to change what she had done. Yet why just him? Why couldn’t she have had mercy and found a way to save his father too? Nothing about Brock could have been innately special. The man who had raised him deserved to live just as much as Brock did.
Suddenly angry, Brock ran forward. His feet pounded the asphalt. Instead of the car getting closer, though, it drew further away. It shrank. His father was in there. Dying. Brock tried to yell, but no sound came from his throat. He pushed his legs harder, making the muscles burn. Still he was no closer.
Something struck his right temple. Brock thrashed.
“Brock!” someone yelled.
Lights seared his eyes and his right cheek burned. Brock blinked heavily. Jax and Andrew stood above him, the florescent lights flickering behind his shoulder. Somehow he had forgotten he was still in the waiting room. His head still pounding, he straightened up in the chair.
“You were calling out for your father,” Jax told him. “Are you all right?”
Brock clutched his aching head. “Fine.”
“Dr. Weaver came by a couple of minutes ago. That’s why I tried to wake you. Your mom woke up.”
Brock scrambled up, the aching in his head suddenly unimportant. Dr. Weaver waited patiently at the end of the hallway. Nash, Zeke and Toby were still asleep, and Mr. Wittfield had just returned from the cafeteria with trays of coffee.
“Your mother is ready to see you,” Dr. Weaver told him.
“Brianna’s not here yet.”
“She asked for just you for now.”
“Okay.”
Brock followed the man through the familiar hallways. They stopped near the end of a hallway, the doctor waved him in. “I’ll let you be,” Dr. Weaver said softly. “I’m on shift for another hour. If you need anything at all, ask the nurse at the desk we just passed. Take care, Moore.”
Brock nodded absently and walked in. The room was small with one bed. Brock’s mom sat up in bed, and her eyes lit up when she saw him.
“Brock,” she called to him. “How are you, son?”
He crossed the small space and had his arms around her in no time. “You had us worried, Mom. What’s going on?”
A hard metal chair sat in the corner. Brock grabbed it and set it next to the bed. Sitting down, he took in her face. She masked her face in a warm smile, but Brock could see it for the first time. She was weak, a lot thinner than she used to be. Her face was pale and gaunt, and her black hair hung limp. How had he not noticed those things before? How long had she been ill?
She didn’t answer. Something was holding her back.
“Momma,” he pleaded. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
She averted her eyes and took one of his hands in hers. “Oh, Brock.”
“They said you wanted to tell me yourself.”
She nodded and smiled. It was forced this time, and it warmth didn’t meet her eyes. “It’s true.”
“Tell me what? Just say it, Mom.”
“When your dad was taken away from us, I promised myself I’d be here for you and your sister for as long as I could. You’re both adults now, and still I feel I need to be here for you both. That was not a smart pledge, son. I’m glad I made it this far, but I’m not sure I can keep my word for much longer.”
Brock was almost out of his mind wanting to know the truth, and then Mom added, “I have stage three cancer, son.”
That word reverberated throughout the room, banging back again and again against Brock’s skull and trying to get in. Somehow, it didn’t make sense.