I looked up.
"I'm all right."
She stopped beside the bed.
Then she saw my arm.
Her face changed.
"That's not all right."
I gave a small smile.
"I've had worse."
She stared.
"That's not the standard we're using today."
I laughed softly, then winced because laughing pulled at my shoulder.
She immediately became concerned.
"See?"
I nodded.
"Fair point."
She sat beside me.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she reached for my hand.
"Why didn't you tell me it had gotten this dangerous?"
I looked down.
"I knew the threats were escalating. I didn't know they'd send someone willing to attack me."
She swallowed.
"You're sixty-eight."
I raised an eyebrow.
"I remember."
She didn't smile.
"Dad, you live alone."
I looked toward her.
"I know."
She took a slow breath.
Then her voice softened.
"I already lost Mom."
The words hit harder than the baton.
I looked at my daughter.
Her eyes were filled with tears.
For most of her life, I'd been the strong person in the family. The one who handled emergencies, made decisions, and reminded everyone else to remain calm. Even after retirement, I had trouble admitting when I needed help.
But sitting there beside my daughter, I realized that my refusal to appear vulnerable had frightened her more than I understood.
I squeezed her hand.
"I'm sorry."
She looked down.
"I don't want you proving anything to anybody."
I nodded.
"Neither do I."
She studied me.
Then she asked, "What happened?"
I told her.
Not every detail.
Not the parts of the federal investigation I wasn't entitled to discuss.
But enough.
The fake officers.
The HOA president.
The shove against the sedan.
The baton.
And the arrival of the FBI agents.
She listened quietly.
When I finished, she stared at the floor.
Then she said, "She sent people to assault my father because he wouldn't surrender his own property."
I took a breath.
"That's one of the things investigators will need to establish."
My daughter looked up.
"You still talk like an agent."
I smiled faintly.
"Old habits."
She shook her head.
Then she leaned forward and hugged me carefully.
I held her with my good arm.
For a moment, I could almost hear my late wife's voice telling both of us to stop pretending we weren't frightened.