EDORA's POV
The silence woke me up. Not the complete absence of sound, but the quiet, sterile hum of the hospital corridor that meant morning had turned into the slow drag of the afternoon. My neck was stiff, my back ached from the cold marble floor, and my left leg had completely fallen asleep.
I blinked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and slowly straightened up, feeling every bone protest the sudden movement. I checked my phone. 4:00 PM. I had slept right through lunch and half the day, curled up like a defeated stray animal outside Room 412.
I immediately looked at the door. I walked the few steps over and pressed my face close to the tiny, round porthole window, the rearview mirror of his hospital life.
My heart twisted hard in my chest. Pop was lying there, completely still, hooked up to a dozen wires and monitors. He was paler than the sheet covering him, looking small and utterly helpless. The usual warmth and color were gone from his face, replaced by a terrible, lifeless gray.
Diabetes.
The word was a hard, sharp stone in my throat. I stared at him, my eyes burning.
Why didn't you tell me?
The silent question screamed inside my head, yet I knew the answer. Pop always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders so I wouldn't have to carry a feather. He always wanted to be the strong one, the provider, the anchor. He'd worked two jobs for years, saving every penny, always telling me to focus on my dreams. He never once complained about feeling tired or sick. He never wanted to be a burden.
That's why he never told me.
He must have been feeling terrible for months, maybe years, hiding the symptoms, quietly managing his medication, trying to keep his blood sugar stable, all so I wouldn't worry. All so I could feel safe.
I pressed my forehead against the cold glass. The fear was crushing, but a new feeling was rising to meet it: guilt.
"You should have told me, Pop," I whispered, the glass fogging under my breath. "I was supposed to be the one who looked after you. I was supposed to be the one who was smart enough to notice."
I remembered all the nights I came home late from the café, tired and focusing only on my own exhaustion. Did I really look at him? Did I really see him? Or did I just take his strength for granted?
The guilt was a heavy chain around my neck, dragging me down into despair. But then, the image of Wilson Gates flashed in my mind—that arrogant, cold smile when he offered to buy my life.
Keep the money, Mr. Gates!
I had yelled that. I had walked out. I had chosen my pride over my father's life.
I shook my head violently, trying to shake away the self-pity and the terrible memory of that restaurant. I couldn't afford to feel guilty or angry anymore. Guilt wouldn't pay the bill. Anger wouldn't run the IV drip. Only action would.
I took one last, long look at my father's still face. The $20,000 bill was still there. The clock was still ticking. And the only offer I had received, the disgusting, soul-crushing offer, was still the only door open. But I had to find another.
I pulled my knees away from my chest, picked up my worn backpack from the floor, and started walking. I didn't know where I was going, but I couldn't stay here, defeated, on the cold marble floor. I just needed to move.
I walked through the lobby, my eyes scanning the ground, avoiding the stares of the busy hospital staff. I walked past the entrance and onto the main street. The air was cool and crisp, a welcome change from the stale hospital environment.
I headed down a side street, away from the flashy, rich areas and toward the grittier, older parts of the city. I was walking on autopilot, my mind a storm of anxiety and impossible math.
Then, my eyes snagged on something tacked crookedly to a lamppost. It was a brightly colored flyer, already damp and peeling at the edges.
It was a poster for a nightclub, and the heading was big and bold
DANCERS NEEDED! IMMEDIATE START! CASH PAID DAILY!
My stomach turned. Dancing. I wasn't a dancer. I was a barista. The thought of walking into a place like that, of putting my body on display for strangers, made me feel sick and ashamed.
But the words CASH PAID DAILY screamed louder than my shame. Daily cash meant money now. Money to put towards the bill, to buy time, to show the hospital I was trying. It was desperate, but it wasn't selling my entire life to Wilson Gates.
I stopped right there, pulling out my phone. I fumbled in my bag for a pen, found one, and quickly copied the number from the damp flyer onto my phone's notepad. My hands were shaking slightly, but I made sure the numbers were right. I didn't want to call it right now, but I wanted the option. I needed the option.
I put the phone away and continued walking. The sun was getting low now, making the shadows long and stretching. I felt utterly alone, navigating the crowded sidewalks, everyone else rushing to their normal lives, their safe, scheduled, non-dying-father lives.
After about ten minutes of walking in silence, the quiet in my own head became too loud. It was just the anxiety, the debt, the terrible truth of my situation, ringing like a deafening alarm. I needed to turn it off.
I dug into my backpack again and pulled out my cheap, tangled earpiece. I spent a minute unraveling the cord, which felt like a chore, but it was a distraction. I plugged it into my phone and chose a playlist, upbeat, fast pop music, something totally disconnected from reality. I shoved the tiny buds into my ears and cranked the volume up high.
Click. Click. Click. The world outside faded, replaced by pounding drums and singing.
I started walking again, the rhythm of the music forcing a beat into my tired feet. I didn't think about the hospital. I didn't think about the $20,000. I didn't think about the arrogance of Wilson Gates.
Instead, I started building.
I imagined a different life, one that was beautiful and perfect. My feet moved to the beat as I walked, and the music painted a scene in my mind:
I wasn't walking down this dirty street; I was walking through the warm, sunny door of my own business. Not a cafe, but a beautiful, bright store filled with things I made, handmade pottery, small wooden carvings, unique, lovely art.
Pop was there, sitting in a comfortable chair, laughing and healthy. He wasn't pale; his cheeks were rosy, and his hands, the hands that used to hold mine so tightly, were resting peacefully on a good book.
The money was irrelevant. I could sign checks without looking. I didn't have to choose between my dignity and his survival. I was standing next to Pop, strong and capable, telling him all about the day, asking him what he wanted for dinner.
In this imaginary life, I was calm. I was safe. I was successful. And I was happy.
I walked and walked, letting the fantasy play out, editing the scenes in my head, making the details perfect. I walked past stores and houses and parks, seeing none of them, only seeing the bright, warm world I had invented, fueled by the pulsing music. I let the temporary happiness flood my system, needing the relief like a drug. It was the only way to silence the fear.
I walked like this, head down, completely lost in the rhythm and the beautiful fiction, for a long time.
When the music finally cut out, the battery on my cheap phone finally giving up, I stopped walking. The silence crashed in, heavy and abrupt.
I looked around. I was miles from the hospital, on a street I barely recognized, and the sky was now a deep, inky blue. It was almost dark.
I looked at my phone. The screen was black. I hit the power button. The time flashed briefly before the battery died completely. I had been walking for well over an hour.
The cold reality hit me hard, like running face-first into a brick wall. The lovely dream I had built shattered into a million pieces. Pop was still in Room 412. I was still broke. The deadline was fast approaching.
I had wasted time. I had wasted the one thing I couldn't afford to lose.
I turned quickly, my head suddenly light and dizzy, and began the long, hard walk back to St. Jude's Hospital. The night was cold, and the fear was a deeper, colder thing now.
I finally got back to the hospital, exhausted and shivering. I walked straight to the fourth floor, my legs aching with every step.
I was outside Room 412 again. I was ready to sink back onto the floor, defeated, when I stopped myself.
I didn't sink. I stood tall, forcing my shoulders back, pushing the despair away. I had walked out on the devil's deal. I had found another option, a terrible, desperate one, but an option nonetheless. I was still fighting.
I walked to the door and looked through the window again. Pop looked the same, pale, peaceful, unaware of the war being fought over his life.
I stared at him, my heart filled with a raw, fierce love that was stronger than any fear Wilson Gates could ever offer. I lifted my hand and placed it on the cold glass, right where his chest was.
"I don't know how I'm going to do it," I whispered, the words silent and only for him. "But I will find the money. I won't let them send you away. I won't let you die."
A small, fragile smile touched my lips, a genuine one this time, fueled by a new, hard resolve. I was done being scared. I was done being sad. It was time to be a fighter.
I took my hand away from the glass. I looked at his sleeping face, and a final, quiet promise formed in my mind.
Dad, trust me to get you out of this stage.