"Good heavens! Asher!" Paul's voice boomed as if he were afraid an audience might miss his performance. "What on earth did you do to end up like this? You nearly gave us a heart attack!"
He lunged for the bedside and grabbed my hand. Instinctively, I tried to pull away, but my body was too weak.
Trapped.
A woman—Paul's wife, I assumed—chimed in, her voice shrill. "Uncle Asher! You really scared us to death! You're an old man now—what could possibly be so important that you can't let it go? Why did you have to get into a huff with Joshua? The boy is so busy, and here you are causing trouble for him!"
She swiveled toward my son, her expression shifting to practiced sympathy. "Joshua, don't worry too much. Your uncle is just venting. Once he cools off, he'll be fine. But honestly, you should treat the elderly better in the future!"
Her words were dressed up as mediation, but the underlying message rang clear: *This is all the old man's fault for not knowing his place.*
I watched this farce unfold. A bone-deep exhaustion settled over me.
Slowly, I opened my eyes fully, my gaze drifting past their feigned concern to the gray, lifeless sky beyond the window.