Afternoon light came through the blinds in pale stripes.
A half-empty coffee cup sat near Ethan’s keys.
The discharge folder was still on the side table because every day seemed to produce another bill, another form, another reminder that getting sick in America came with a paper trail.
Mallory picked up her phone.
The message was from her father.
Dad: We need $12,000 for your mother’s surgery.
No hello.
No how are you.
No apology for leaving her in a hospital bed while machines and strangers did the work her family should have done with their presence.
Just a demand.
Mallory stared at it until the words stopped looking like words.
Ethan, sitting across from her, watched her face and reached for her wrist.
He did not grab.
He just placed his hand there, steady and warm.
“Mal,” he said softly.
She did not cry.
She did not yell.
