ONCE THE GIRL HAD FINALLY REACHED THE HOSPITAL,her legs ached from pacing. Her breath came in short bursts, sharp
and shallow, as if she'd forgotten how to breathe somewhere between the taxi
ride and the emergency doors. The sterile scent of disinfectant clung to her
throat, burning like guilt. Nurses, patients, and stretchers drifted past her
in practiced chaos, all swallowed by the same fluorescent hum of machines and
muffled conversation.
The world inside a hospital was too
bright to feel safe.
She sat in the waiting room for what
felt like hours, gripping her grandmother's handbag to her chest like a
lifeline. The leather was soft from years of use, smelling faintly of lavender
and home. Every time the automatic doors hissed open, her head jerked up, heart
leaping with a hope she didn't want to name.
But no one called her name.
The television in the corner played a
cooking show with the volume too low to hear. Somewhere, a child was crying.
The clock above the reception desk ticked slow enough to drive her insane.
Then—finally—a voice broke through.
"Miss Rivera?"
She was on her feet before the words
finished leaving the doctor's mouth. "Yes—that's me." Her throat was tight.
"How is she? Please—just tell me she's okay."
The doctor, a calm man with tired eyes
and a clipboard pressed to his chest, offered a careful smile. He looked like
someone who'd practiced bad news too many times.
"Your grandmother suffered what
appears to be a mild stroke," he said gently. "She's stable for now, but her
condition is still critical."
Stephanie's chest tightened. The word
critical clawed at her insides. "Critical?" she echoed, as if maybe she'd heard
wrong.
He nodded slowly. "She regained
consciousness briefly, but her blood pressure is dangerously high. We're
monitoring her closely for the next twenty-four hours. She's lucky you found
her when you did."
Lucky. The word didn't feel right.
Lucky people didn't collapse in their kitchens.
Stephanie swallowed hard, her voice
trembling. "She's going to recover, right?"
The doctor hesitated—just long enough
for her stomach to drop. "We're doing everything we can. With continued
treatment, physical therapy, and medication, there's a good chance. But those
treatments will take time—and require approval for extended care."
"Approval?"
He shifted the clipboard, eyes darting
briefly toward the hallway. "Insurance only covers emergency services. For
specialized therapy and long-term monitoring, there will be additional costs.
You'll need to authorize payment before we begin the next stage."
Stephanie blinked. The words landed
like static—unreal, mechanical, cruel. "How much?"
"I can't say for certain yet," he said
softly. "The billing office will give you an estimate, but I'd recommend you
arrange it soon."
Her mouth went dry. She could already
feel her savings slipping through her fingers—the money she'd been hoarding for
rent, for groceries, for just surviving.
The doctor's voice softened again.
"For now, she's resting. You can see her once the nurses finish running a few
more tests."
And then he was gone—just another
white coat swallowed by the sterile corridors.
Stephanie stood there for a long
moment, staring at the floor tiles that reflected too much light. Her
grandmother was alive. Alive. But keeping her that way… would come with a
price.
The rhythmic beep of the monitor
filled the room, steady and soft, like a heartbeat made mechanical.
Stephanie stood by the bedside, her
fingers brushing against the cold metal railing. Her grandmother looked smaller
somehow—frail beneath the pale hospital sheets, her skin washed in the ghostly
blue light of the monitors.
A single tear slipped down Stephanie's
cheek before she realized it was there. She brushed it away quickly, as if
emotion itself were a luxury she couldn't afford.
"Hey, Granny," she whispered, pulling
the chair closer until her knees pressed against the bed. "You scared me
today."
Her voice cracked on the last word.
She reached for her grandmother's hand—warm but weak—and held it tight. Her
grandmother's rings, slightly loose on her fingers now, pressed into
Stephanie's palm.
"You said I should stop bottling
things up, right?" she murmured. "Well… I'm trying."
Linda's eyelids fluttered, just
barely. A small, involuntary twitch that gave Stephanie a flicker of hope.
"It's okay," Stephanie whispered. "You
don't have to wake up yet. Just rest. I'll handle things."
The lie burned as soon as it left her
lips. She didn't know how she'd handle anything. The rent. The bills. The
treatments. The thought of it all pressed against her chest like invisible
hands, squeezing the air from her lungs.
A soft knock interrupted the silence.
A woman in navy scrubs stepped in,
holding a clipboard against her chest. "Miss Rivera?" she asked, her tone
polite but rehearsed. "The billing department asked me to bring these."
Stephanie straightened, tucking a
stray strand of hair behind her ear as the nurse handed over a thick stack of
forms.
"These authorize continued care," the
nurse explained, her voice calm and sympathetic. "If you want the doctors to
proceed with physical therapy and neurological monitoring, you'll need to sign
here."
Stephanie's gaze fell to the bottom of
the page.
And there it was—the number. The kind
that didn't seem real. Too many digits, too many zeroes. Her pulse pounded in
her ears. She blinked, but the numbers stayed the same.
Her rent for the month. Groceries for
three. Bus fare. All of it, gone in one breath.
She nodded anyway, forcing her hand
steady as she took the pen. The signature came out shaky.
The nurse offered a small, reassuring
smile. "You're doing the right thing," she said softly. "She's lucky to have
you."
When the door closed again, the
silence returned—heavy, sterile, endless. Stephanie sank into the chair, her
shoulders slumping under invisible weight.
She turned back to her grandmother,
whose chest rose and fell in a fragile rhythm.
"I'll figure it out," she whispered,
her thumb brushing over the back of Linda's hand. "Even if it kills me, I'll
find a way."
Outside, rain began to fall against
the windowpane—soft, steady, relentless.
Just like her.