Page 23 of Run Omega Run
Angus laughed whole-heartedly. Even my mom chuckled under her strained breaths.
"It's home," I said simply, because that was the truth that mattered more than its integrity.
As we reached the front steps, I spotted Bennett standing near the door with Becky and Cole. Bennett's presence immediately made the space feel more organized, as if his natural authority extended even to the arrangement of people and conversations. Becky looked up when she saw us approaching, relief flooding her face as she took in Mom's upright posture and clearer eyes.
"How is she?" Becky asked, moving toward us with the quick, efficient steps of someone accustomed to managing crises involving people she cared about.
"Better," I said, helping Dante navigate Mom up the first step. "The doctors got the fluid buildup under control. She's going to recover at home."
I caught Bennett's eye over Mom's head, and he gave me a slight nod that acknowledged the careful way I'd phrased that truth. Not a lie, exactly, but not the complete picture of palliative care and measured time that would have sent Becky into protective overdrive.
"We received the tour," Cole said, gesturing toward the building behind him. "Becky showed us around, and introduced us to the children."
"They're remarkable," Bennett added, and there was genuine warmth in his voice. "Resilient. You should be proud of what you've built here."
Before I could respond, the front door burst open, and children poured out like water breaking through a dam. Loubie Lou appeared first, her one-eared rabbit clutched against her chest, but she stopped abruptly when she saw Mom leaning on Dante's arm. Her three-year-old face scrunched with confusion as she tried to process why the woman who usually picked her up and spun her around was moving so slowly and carefully.
Susie came next, her wild red hair even wilder than usual, but she caught Loubie Lou's hand before the toddler could rush forward. There was something in Susie's fourteen-year-old eyes that suggested she understood more about the situation than the younger ones did.
Manny and Macey appeared, and clustered together in the doorway, their bodies tense with the kind of intuitive understanding that told them their world had shifted in ways they couldn't yet comprehend.
"Hello, my darlings," Mom said, her voice weaker than usual but still warm with the love that had never wavered despite everything else that was failing. "Did you miss me this today?"
Loubie Lou nodded solemnly, still holding back but taking one small step forward. "Bunny missed you too. He was crying."
"Was he?" Mom smiled, and for a moment her face held echoes of the woman who had run this place with endless energy and unshakeable conviction. "Well, tell Bunny that I'm home now, and I'm feeling much better."
Dante helped her up the remaining steps while Angus cleared the way. The children parted to let us through, their eyes wide and worried but trusting that the adults would handle whatever crisis was unfolding.
Inside, the familiar smell of home wrapped around us—stone and wood, lingering breakfast porridge, the faint scent of Becky's vanilla that clung to the children's clothes from their morning together. It was a sharp contrast to the antiseptic hospital air,immediately more comforting despite the cracks in the walls and the windows that never quite sealed properly.
"Where would you like her?" Dante asked me as we made our way toward the stairs that led to Mom's room.
"I can walk," Mom protested, but her grip on his arm tightened with each step, belying her claim to independence.
"Course ye can," Angus agreed easily. "But there's no shame in lettin' someone else do the work when they're offering."
Getting her upstairs took all of us working together—Dante supporting her, Bennett clearing the path ahead, Cole carrying the medications, and me and Angus staying close enough to catch her if she stumbled. The children followed at a distance, their footsteps soft on the worn wooden stairs.
Mom's room felt different with four large men crowding into the space, making it seem smaller but somehow more protected. Dante helped her settle into her bed; fresh sheets surrounded her after Becky had thankfully changed the bed sheets. Bennett opened the medications and Cole arranged them on her nightstand with the methodical precision of someone who understood exactly what each bottle contained.
"The doctor said one of every four hours for breathing," Bennett explained, showing me a small white inhaler. "And these pills for pain as needed, but no more than two every six hours."
I nodded, trying to memorize instructions that felt overwhelmingly complex after months of making do with over-the-counter remedies and hope. "I'll write it down."
"We'll help," Angus said, settling his bulk into the chair beside Mom's bed with surprising gentleness. "Whatever ye need, whenever ye need it."
Mom reached out to pat his large hand where it rested on the arm of the chair. "You've all done so much already. More than we had any right to expect from strangers."
"Not strangers anymore," Cole said quietly, echoing Dante's words from the hospital.
As they prepared to leave, Bennett paused in the doorway, his dark eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made my pulse quicken despite the exhaustion that was settling into my bones.
"Would you mind if we came by tomorrow?" he asked. "Just to check on how she's settling in, and see if you need anything."
The request was carefully casual, but I could see the genuine concern behind it. These men had somehow become invested in our wellbeing in ways that went beyond simple good Samaritan kindness.
"I'd like that very much," I said, meaning it completely. "The children would too. They're not used to having... having men around who care about what happens to them."
