Merlot imagined reporters chasing him through the streets of New York City, eager to uncover the story behind the story. Once a book hits the bestseller list, people start asking questions—especially about the author's country. He'd grown up believing his country's freedom was worth any price—and he never questioned who paid it.
His mother had other plans—she wanted to spend her final days in a hospital back home.
Merlot never understood why.
"We have the finest doctors money can buy," he said. "You're safer here than anywhere else."
"No," she said. "I'm here because I bought the myth. Health care is sold like luxury cars—only those who can pay the price get out unscathed."
Merlot scoffed. "We've got cutting-edge tech. Million-dollar scanners. You'd rather wait months for a checkup back home?"
Her eyes sharpened. "Your marble-floored hospitals don't help if your insurance fails. I'd rather wait six months for a checkup than go bankrupt in six hours."
"How dare you trash the healthcare system that built this country?" Merlot shot back.
"Then why's GoFundMe your healthcare system?" she shot back, calm but cutting. "Why do your people beg online for chemo? Call yourself a first-world country when everyone can receive care without selling their house."
Merlot's jaw tightened. "Doctors aren't charities."
"That's why we pay taxes in my country," she said. "I've stayed in your hospitals. I'm grateful for the care, but I don't agree with the price it demands. I want to go home, where health doesn't come at the cost of life itself."
Merlot's voice rose. "Our healthcare costs more than yours because our doctors are better trained!"
"Better trained?" Her smile was a blade. "Only in your country can a surgeon maim thirty patients and keep their job—because hospitals fear lawsuits more than lives."
Merlot fell silent. What she said couldn't be true. Could it?