Dropping The Hammer. Joanna Wayne

L-shaped building was redbrick, set in a parklike setting with several bare-branched oak trees and a few pines shading benches and small, gurgling fountains.

      Not the worst of places to be housed if you needed care, but definitely not the wide-open spaces of Arrowhead Hills.

      There was a covered drop-off area at the front door. A sign directed him to a visitor parking lot in the rear. A couple of dozen cars and trucks and two vans emblazoned with the name of the center were parked near the back entrance.

      Luke climbed out of his truck and locked it before sauntering up the narrow walk to the back door. He hesitated before opening the door, gearing himself to deal with whatever came next.

      His father had been fifty-eight when Luke cut out. A big man, over six feet tall, muscles developed from a lifetime of hard work. Rigid. Hardheaded. His way or the highway.

      But Luke himself had changed a lot in eleven years and not just physically. He was less impulsive, more prone to think before acting. Maybe time or aging and the stroke had mellowed Alfred.

      He stopped at the nurses’ station at the end of a short hallway. One nurse was at her computer. Another was on the phone. What he guessed was an aide pushed a patient in a wheelchair down the hall as Luke waited for one of the nurses to acknowledge him.

      The man in the wheelchair waved and smiled—a dead giveaway it wasn’t Alfred.

      Nurse number two, a middle-aged brunette with short hair and extremely red lipstick, hung up her phone and asked if she could help him. Her name tag said she was an RN named Louise.

      “I’m Alfred Dawkins’s son. I have an appointment.”

      Louise clapped her hands together softly as a smile lit up her face. “You must be Luke. We’ve been hoping a family member would show up.”

      “I came as soon as I could and I was assured he was not in critical condition.”

      “He’s fine, but he’s a handful to deal with. I’m sure he’ll be much easier to handle now that you’re here.”

      “I wouldn’t count on that. I also have an appointment with Carolyn Schultz.”

      “Great. I know she’s looking forward to discussing Alfred’s progress with you. She’s not here yet, but your father is in his room, probably watching TV. I’m sure you’re anxious to see him.”

      Anxious, but not eager. But he could think of no legitimate excuse to put the visit off.

      “Alfred is in Room 109, just around the corner. Now, don’t get upset if he doesn’t recognize you at once. He sometimes gets confused when he has visitors.”

      “I understand.”

      “Other times he’s clued in and recognizes visitors right away. Either way, he’s slow at getting his words out.”

      “I’ll keep my expectations low.” That should be easy enough.

      He followed the nurse to Alfred’s room. She entered before him. Alfred was propped up in a hospital bed, wearing a blue shirt only half-buttoned with food stains down the front. He looked frail and years older than Luke remembered him.

      He felt a jolt to his gut. The man in the hospital bed was not the father he remembered.

      Louise walked over and stood next to Alfred’s bed. “You have a visitor,” she announced in a cheery voice.

      Alfred grunted and pulled up his sheet before looking at Luke. For the first few seconds, there was nothing in his facial expression to indicate he recognized Luke. Then his thin lips all but disappeared in a scowl.

      Louise stood back so that Luke could step in closer. “Do you know who this is?” she asked.

      “Hell, yes. But he’s...too soon. I’m not...not dead yet.”

      That was the father he remembered.

      Welcome home, Luke Dawkins.