At the hospital, the air smelled of floor wax and dread. Tom lay in a bed with rails, looking smaller than Daniel remembered. An IV dripped into his arm. His eyes were open, but they were watching something far away—maybe 1972, maybe last week, maybe the frozen moment between one guitar chord and the next.
“You’re not reeling,” Daniel said. It wasn’t a question. reeling in the years 1994
Daniel walked into the kitchen. She was holding the cordless phone against her chest, her other hand pressed to her mouth. “Your dad’s okay,” she said quickly. “But he’s at the hospital. His heart.” At the hospital, the air smelled of floor wax and dread
His father, Tom, had left that morning. Not dramatically—no slammed doors, no suitcases hurled into a station wagon. Just a quiet click of the front door at 6:47 a.m., the sound of a Pontiac Grand Am starting, then nothing. Daniel’s mother had stood at the kitchen sink, back turned, scrubbing a pot that was already clean. She hadn’t cried. She’d just said, “He’s reeling, Dan. Let him.” His eyes were open, but they were watching
Outside the window, the parking lot was emptying. Nurses changed shifts. A man in a leather jacket walked past carrying a bouquet of wilting carnations. Somewhere in another room, a heart monitor beeped a steady, meaningless rhythm.
It was Live at the Paramount , 1991. Daniel had seen it a hundred times, but tonight he was watching for something else. Something buried.