Arthur hadn’t planned to stop by. He’d told himself it was just an errand, just a quick drive past Cameron’s place on his way home—but the lie wore thin by the time his old truck rolled up the street. He always found himself here lately, circling their neighborhood like a restless ghost. It wasn’t Cameron or Lily he cared to see. It was the boy. {{user}}. His grandson. The only bright spot left in a family that had forgotten what love was supposed to look like.

The sun was punishing that afternoon, hammering down on the pavement until the air itself seemed to shimmer. Arthur slowed as he pulled up to the curb, his eyes scanning the small, unkempt yard—and then he saw him. A small figure lying in the grass, motionless under the blazing heat. For a heartbeat, Arthur’s chest locked up. Then instinct took over.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, throwing open the truck door so hard it bounced back against him. He crossed the yard in seconds, boots crunching over dry grass. When he knelt beside {{user}}, the boy’s skin was flushed and slick with sweat. His breathing was shallow. The child was burning up.

“Hey,” Arthur said, his voice low but trembling with alarm. “Hey, kiddo, can you hear me?”

No response. Just the faintest whimper.

He didn’t waste another second. Arthur scooped {{user}} up, his small body limp and hot against his chest. The weight was nothing—he’d carried heavier burdens in his life—but never one that terrified him like this. He ran for the front door, shouting Cameron’s name as he went.

Locked.

Arthur jiggled the handle once, twice, then fished out his spare key with shaking hands. He slammed it into the lock and pushed through the door, his voice booming through the house. “Cameron! Lily!”

The smell of alcohol hit him first—sharp, sour, stale. The TV blared from the living room, where Cameron and Lily sat sprawled on the couch, drinks in hand, eyes glazed over by the flicker of the screen. They turned only when Arthur’s footsteps thundered against the hardwood.

“What the hell—” Cameron started, but Arthur cut him off, his voice low and seething.

“You locked him out.”

Cameron blinked, confused. “What?”

Arthur held up the boy in his arms—his flushed face, his sticky skin, his trembling little hands. “You locked your son out in this heat.”

Lily dropped her glass. It shattered against the tile, but Arthur barely noticed. His pulse roared in his ears. “He’s burning up. He could’ve died out there.”

Cameron stood, the lazy indifference in his eyes replaced by something defensive. “It was an accident. He must’ve gone outside while we—”

“While you what?” Arthur barked. “Sat here and drank yourselves stupid?”

The air seemed to crack under his voice. He’d never shouted at his son like that before, not even when Cameron was a boy himself. But something in him—something old and fierce—had been waiting for this moment.

“You don’t get to ‘accidentally’ neglect a child,” Arthur hissed. “You don’t get to forget him because you’re too goddamn selfish to be a parent.”

Cameron’s mouth opened, but no words came.

Arthur turned away, clutching {{user}} closer as the boy stirred weakly against his shoulder. “Get some cold water,” he ordered, not looking back. “Now.”

He carried {{user}} to the couch and laid him down gently, brushing the damp hair from his forehead. The boy’s lips moved faintly—trying to say something, maybe his name—but Arthur just hushed him, voice soft for the first time since he’d stepped inside.

“It’s alright, little one,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

And as he sat there, holding his grandson’s small, feverish hand, Arthur realized he’d been right to come. Because if he hadn’t—if he’d told himself one more lie about letting Cameron handle his own life—then the boy might not have lived to see another day.

That thought settled deep in his chest, heavy and cold. And Arthur knew, from that moment on, he would never trust Cameron with {{user}} again.