Dad’s in bed by the window, one of six men in decline. The ward hums with machines that keep time for those hanging on. I haven’t slept for two days, and I doubt he has either. I should have come yesterday — some days it’s too hard to look reality in the face.

      Strips of winter sunlight cut through the blinds, marking the wall like someone counting off days. Everything feels arranged to drain life — even the freesias have given up. The smell is disinfectant and decay.

      "Hey, Dad," I say, touching his shoulder.

      He stirs and grunts. "Oh, it’s you."

      I drag a plastic chair to the bed, then sit so he can see me, so I can hold his hand. He’s still in the same pyjamas, smelling of stale sweat.

      His greasy hair is plastered to his head, the proud captain’s beard ragged and overgrown. Dad always took pride in looking smart. Now it’s like there’s no point keeping him tidy.

      It shouldn’t upset me. But it does.

      "How you feeling?" I ask.

      "Pain," he says, reedy and forced. "A lot of pain."

      "What are they giving you?"

      He’s irritated. "I don’t know. Pills. Injections. It’s all above the average operator."

      I almost roll my eyes — an old reflex. This is his favourite line, deployed when facing the unfathomable. He was promoted from operator to supervisor a decade ago, but the line stuck. He’d worked thirty years in the factory — never called in sick, never asked for favours. The kind of man who measured himself by what he could carry.

      I squeeze his hand gently — more pressure will hurt him. As I sit, he drifts for a moment, and I hear low moans, the hiss and click of equipment, chatter from the nurses’ station. No other visitors — it’s not visiting time, but I seem to have permission. Above the door, the clock ticks without pity.

      His skin has that lemony cancer-pallor, and his famous beer belly has fallen away. His face has shrunk so much his teeth look too big, like an old man’s dentures. They’re good teeth, though — runs in the family — and I’m glad the hypercalcemia hasn’t ravaged them like the rest of his bones.

      "Sorry I didn’t come yesterday," I say. "Work was busy."

      I don’t tell him I’ve been signed off with stress.

      "Don’t worry, boy. I’ve had my time."

      "For God’s sake. Sixty is fuck all. Look at Grandad — still going at ninety."

      "For now," Dad says softly. He looks away.

      I’ve put my foot in it. Grandad’s half-blind and doddery, but he’s still got enough marbles to know Dad is sick. I’ve given him the watered-down version. If his only son dies first, it’ll finish him off.

      Suddenly Dad says, "We all know I’m going to kick the bucket. Might as well accept it."

      His deadpan delivery almost makes me laugh. I still can’t tell when he’s joking, that dry Pembrokeshire matter-of-factness.

      "Stop it," I say. "You’re not going anywhere. You’re retiring next year and getting that holiday flat in Málaga."

      He smiles. He’s been on about it for years. In the Navy he saw the world, but he’s happy now in the rugby club, content with the odd week in Spain.

      "And you’re buying a new car. You’ve got to stop being so tight."

      I go on like this for a minute, trying to convince myself as much as him. Denial, I know. Looking at this shell of a man, it’s hard to imagine him pulling through. But I can’t picture the world without him.

      He catches my gaze with tired yellow eyes, winces again, and says, "Let’s hope so, boy. Let’s hope so."

      Watching him, I realise how few men like him are left — men who just got on with it, no fuss, no complaint. The last of his kind. My breath catches. To change the subject: "Has Brian been?"

      I know my brother’s been once in a month, then to say he was skint and needing money. I’m ashamed of him, then smug for being the better son. Then I’m ashamed of that too, for judging a troubled man who didn’t ask for the hand he was dealt.

      "Don’t think so. Not since he came wanting money."

      I try to spare his feelings. "Maybe he came when you were off your head. Before they brought the calcium down." I add: "Catherine Zeta-Jones could’ve visited and you wouldn’t have known, eh?"

      He chuckles. "I’d have noticed — I’m not dead yet."

      We both know Brian hasn’t been. I’m relieved to see from the fresh crop of cards that friends have called in.

      "I’ve brought your things," I say, reaching into a shopping bag. I pass him a Kenny Rogers CD and put a bottle of Ribena — his favourite — on the chipped cabinet. Next is a framed photo. I place it in his hands.

      Twenty summers ago: Dad, tanned and laughing in the Spanish sun, a small boy on each side in matching striped T-shirts. He looks more like me than the man in the bed, yet it could have been yesterday. When I found it in an album, the gap between then and now winded me. How could a vigorous man of forty, enjoying the beach with his kids, be dying in a hospital bed?

      But then I realised: he’s still young. Sixty is fuck all.

      Dad runs a finger across the faces of the two boys. "Good holiday," he says, dry lips pressed between a smile and a sob. "We’ll have another soon — find a bar where they serve beer in frosted glasses with free olives."

      I’m about to answer when I hear a flurry of activity, and the doctor arrives. TV- medical-drama looks — neat hair, lean — but a hard face. Maybe that’s how they cope.

      "Good afternoon," he says, South African accent, neutral tone. "I’m Doctor Bekker."

      I stand and introduce myself. He unhooks the clipboard from the bed.

      "I’m going to examine you now, Mr Price."

      A stocky nurse pulls the beige curtain around the bed. Bekker glances at the chart, replaces it, and unbuttons Dad’s shirt. Even that slight pressure makes Dad flinch. When the doctor presses various points, Dad cries out like a man being kicked in the ribs.

      I almost step in, but it’s over in ten seconds. I feel drained, as if it were me under those thick hands.
      "It is as we thought," Dr Bekker says, removing his glasses. "I am sorry, but the best we can do is reduce the pain." His eyes soften for a heartbeat before the mask returns.

      I close my eyes. Nothing feels real. My ears buzz, like when a plane’s coming down, and for a second I can’t swallow. Everything goes muffled, like I’m underwater.

      The curtain’s pulled back and Bekker’s already on to the next poor sod. I start to understand his coldness.

      I look at Dad — jaundiced and sad. His shirt’s open, and his gold St Christopher rests in the grey curls on his chest. I should be crying, but I’m frozen. For a moment I stare at the clock above the door, ticking on.

      My phone buzzes in my pocket. Brian. What now — money? Dad’s car?

      A message: Tell Dad I love him.

      I stare at it. My brother, despite his struggles, still loves him. We both do. And this might be the last time we say it.

      I read it aloud. He reaches over and squeezes my hand. His grip is weak but deliberate — still comforting me, still my dad. For a moment I imagine us all in Málaga, the beer cold enough to freeze your teeth, the olives free. Dad’s in his floppy hat and those bloody red Speedos. Way above average. Shirt unbuttoned over his belly, his St Christopher glints in the blazing Spanish sun.

      One of us cracks a joke. He flashes those strong white teeth and laughs — loud, fearless, alive.

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John Barrett Lee is a Welsh fiction writer and teacher from Pembrokeshire, now based in Vietnam. He studied Creative Writing at the University of Glamorgan. His work focuses on the intersection of memory, identity, and place, and is forthcoming with Fairlight Books and was longlisted for the 2025 Historical Writers’ Association Short Story Prize. He has just completed his first collection, entitled Quiet Enough to Listen.