Part 27

The stroke wasn’t dramatic.

No collapse in a grocery aisle, no ambulance sirens.

It happened in my kitchen, standing in socks on cold tile, while making coffee. My right hand simply forgot how to hold the mug.

Ceramic hit the counter, shattered. Hot coffee splashed my wrist. I didn’t notice at first.

My mouth tried to form Marisol’s name. The words came thick.

She was there in seconds, nurse instincts snapping into place.

“Vincent,” she said firmly. “Look at me.”

I tried. The room wobbled.

She checked my face, arms, speech—hands steady.

“Don’t move,” she ordered, pulling out her phone. “We’re going in.”

In the ER, everything smelled of antiseptic and fear. Nurses moved fast, voices calm, wheels squeaking. A doctor explained it was a minor ischemic event, caught early. A warning stroke.

“A gift,” the doctor said. “A chance to tighten the bolts.”

I lay staring at ceiling tiles, thinking about bolts. About Trevor, liens, forfeiture, Daniel Hart’s smooth questions. Life never stops testing your joints.

Marisol sat beside me, holding my left hand.

“I’m okay,” I rasped.

“You’re not,” she said softly. “You will be. But don’t pretend this is nothing.”

Evelyn arrived that afternoon, clipboard in hand, eyes sharp.

“This changes your planning timeline,” she said.

“I know,” I murmured.

“And who needs authority if something happens,” she added.