Chapter Text
“Yours now.” His father’s hand is febrile and trembling in his own, a dry clutch of sticks. “Promise me. Keep them …” Malcolm’s voice fails him, but his grip is still strong.
Garrett swallows against the ache in his throat. He has made this promise a hundred times in the last three days. “I’ll keep them safe.”
“Bethany,” Malcolm pulls, insistent. “Don’t … let them …”
“I promise.”
“Good boy,” said Malcolm. “Best of me. Of … your mother. Proud.” He is silent then, eyes closed, breath rasping. Garrett holds onto his hand, hunched on the wooden chair, back aching.
Hours later, Malcolm twitches, opens his fever-bright eyes. Garrett supports his head, holds the cup carefully for him to drink. Malcolm watches him over the brim, brows creased in anxiety. “Watch them,” he says, insistent, when the cup is gone. “Yours. Your job.”
“I promise,” says Garrett, as he always does. “I will.”