Fort Brothers

0002 – Isa

Down at the far end of the table, the twins were laughing. Low, quick bursts that didn’t need words to tell me who they were laughing at.

Kesley cherished her daughters. You could tell without her ever needing to say it aloud.

They moved in a day before I was married off. Crates and trunks and the smell of lavender polish came first. Then their voices. High and constant, filling rooms that had been quiet for years.

Before all of that, dinner had always been simple. Just me and Dad at the table. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we didn't. Sometimes it was only me, picking at food in silence. Strange as it sounded, I'd grown used to it.

And some part of me had still expected things to be as they were. Not anymore. This time, I felt like the visitor. Like I was the one who’d moved in.

“It gets messier,” Said one of the twins. Brittany—or Beverly? Honestly, I still couldn't tell which was which half the time. They looked alike in that polished, irritating way siblings sometimes did, and I’d never cared enough to memorise the difference.

She leaned forward with far too much excitement sparkling in her eyes, “She’s going to be Bryan’s special caretaker.”

A sharp gasp slipped out of the other girl's mouth. “Bryan Fort?!”

“What did you expect?" Their mother sat her wine glass down "Isa couldn't even finish a proper degree without her father pulling strings. And marriage? That lasted two weeks before it fell apart. Apparently Scott couldn’t be bothered to keep her around, let alone force her to do anything. Not even a husband wanted her.”

The girls dissolved into quiet laughter. I stood there, fingers tightening around the plate I was holding—suddenly unsure I could even stomach the shepherd’s pie on it.

Dad looked up then. Neither of us said anything. We just stared into each other’s faces.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I jerked my gaze away, turned on my heel, and bolted for the stairs.

My throat burned, but I swallowed it back down. I’d been through hell, enough to know that the only thing you got from crying were swollen eyes and pitying looks and absolutely nothing else. So I locked my jaw, blinked hard, and let the anger sit there instead.

***

HR had handed me the key card for the Fort estate the day before—access codes, schedules, instructions. Everything I’d need before starting.

I clocked in at exactly 6:45 AM. The grounds were still damp with dew, grass and hedges heavy under the weight of it. My fingers fumbled in my purse for the card.

I swiped.

A soft beep. The gate slid open.

The estate itself was fairly old. Not ancient enough to look abandoned or falling apart, but not modern either.

The air smelt of freshly cut grass, damp earth, and something faintly floral weaving through it all. The gardens were clearly well maintained. The lawn was trimmed neatly. Nothing about it looked abandoned or neglected. If anything, it felt carefully preserved.

I stepped onto the front porch, eyes lifting to the door in front of me again. Another keyless entry system. I swiped my card across the panel beside the frame. A clean, familiar beep answered. I turned the handle and pushed the door open.

The vast expanse of the house swallowed me the moment I stepped inside.

Heavy burgundy curtains hung from ceiling to floor. Beneath my feet, a thick red carpet muffled every step.

Above me, chandeliers hung heavy with crystal. Their light spilled across the polished surfaces below, bouncing off dark mahogany furniture chairs, tables, cabinets...

I hesitated at the base of the stairs a second longer than I should have. Took one last look around before I started up.

I climbed to the last place I was supposed to swipe in: the master bedroom. According to Maya, there were three key points. The front gate, the front door, lastly the master bedroom. That had to be Mr. Bryan’s. I gently pushed the door open.

Medical machines hummed quietly in the corners, IV pump, heart monitor, the whole sterile setup.

And there he was. He lay perfectly still, flat on his back, eyes open and turned to the ceiling.

His chest rose and fell slowly beneath the white sheets. His skin was pale, very pale. Contrasting sharply with the dark hair that had grown too long, the curls spilling over his forehead.

I swallowed and stepped forward. Awkwardly. Clutching my purse tighter,

"uh... Good morning, Mr. Bryan....I’m Isa. I’m new. With Carr Care. I’m here to… look after you.”

I hadn’t really greeted him expecting a response. I knew better than to expect one. The man couldn’t talk.

Even though I was a CNA, even though I’d picked up shifts here and there with Dad’s care agency, this was my first vegetative patient. I had no idea how to begin.

I exhaled, then yanked my hair into a messy bun, fingers fumbling with the elastic until it was secured back off my neck.

My teeth caught my lower lip.

What do we start with? A bath?

I pulled my eyes away for a second.

And there, right on top the wooden surface beside me sat a single sheet of paper.

“M.B. – CARE GUIDELINES.”

The blocky handwriting was uneven, like it had been written in a hurry between worrying and remembering. But it was clear enough. Clear enough to feel like something solid in my hands when everything else felt shaky.

I snatched it up before I could overthink it.

Because it mattered. Every line of it mattered.

He prefers soft music in the mornings.

Extra blankets if weather gets cold.

Rotate him carefully—don't rush

I skimmed fast on the way down the stairs.

Turn schedule.

Oral care before anything else.

Tube feed rates. Watch for coughing. Call RN if temp over 100.4.

Halfway down, underlined twice:

RN on site 865-000-080. Meds and assessments only.

I grabbed what I needed to from the kitchen, still scanning the care sheet in one hand, a can of Jevity cold against my palm in the other.

My eyes were locked on the paper, tracing the feed rate again. When I lifted them to find my way out of there—

A sudden, fright overtook me. I sucked in a sharp breath, stumbling slightly.