EDORA's POV
I didn't stop running until the world outside the hospital was nothing but a blurry, black mess. I wasn't running to anywhere; I was running from the cold, terrible number that was sitting on Ms. Alcott's clipboard, $20,000. The amount that was deciding if my father lived or died.
The sky opened up, and the rain started. Not a drizzle, but a heavy, furious downpour. It was like the whole sky was angry for me. The huge, cold drops hit the asphalt and my thin jacket, instantly soaking me through. I was standing on the curb of a busy street, hunching my shoulders, letting the cold water stream over my face, mixing with the tears I hadn't known I was still crying.
I was soaked, shaking, and completely defeated.
Why? The question wasn't a whisper; it was a shout inside my head. Why me? Why us?
I looked up at the black sky, where the thunder was a deep, angry rumble. I knew I didn't believe in the kind of God who reached down and fixed everything, but at that moment, I begged one anyway.
"What did I do?" I whispered, the words getting lost in the drumming rain. "What did Pop ever do? He's a good man. He worked his whole life for me. He never hurt anyone."
I was the quiet girl. The one who kept her head down, worked her shifts, and didn't bother anyone. The girl who gave up her dreams of college to pay the rent. I had traded my entire future for stability, and here I was, standing in the middle of a street, with zero stability left.
The sheer unfairness of it clawed at my chest. People like that man, the arrogant one in the expensive suit, they could walk into that hospital and sign a check without even looking at the number. They could live their whole lives without knowing the terror of losing everything over a single piece of paper. They had walls of money protecting them, and I had only the wet cardboard of my minimum wage salary.
I felt completely empty, like someone had scooped all the feeling out of my chest and left behind a hollow space that was just buzzing with fear. The rain was heavy, washing the street clean, and I wished it could wash me clean of this terrible, suffocating feeling too.
I thought about calling Ciara one more time. The idea of her warm, strong voice was so tempting. But instantly, the guilt came back. Ciara had her own life, her own small business that was barely making it. To ask her for even a tenth of that $20,000 would be asking her to shut down Beachwood Cafe, to give up her own dream. I couldn't do that. I was the one who was supposed to be strong. I was the breadwinner.
I pressed my cold hands to my forehead, trying to think. My mind was like a broken machine, just repeating the same words over and over: 48 hours. $20,000. No options.
I had nowhere to go. Going home was pointless. The apartment would feel hollow and wrong without Pop there, and I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway.
The only place I could be was near him. Near the door to Room 412. Even if I couldn't pay, even if they wouldn't start the surgery, I needed to be there. I needed to be the barrier between him and the outside world, the one who was trying.
With a heavy, defeated sigh, I turned around and started walking back toward the towering, impersonal glass of St. Jude's Hospital. Every step was a surrender.
The return trip was worse than the panicked rush. The water seeped into my shoes, making squishing sounds with every step. My body ached from the cold, and the fluorescent signs of the businesses I passed, selling things I couldn't afford, were just bright, cruel blurs.
When I reached the hospital lobby, the sharp, cold air inside felt like another shock. I must have looked like a drowned rat. My hair was plastered to my head, my jacket was dripping, and my eyes were likely red and puffy. The receptionist gave me a wary, professional look, but she didn't stop me. No one ever stops you when you look like you've already lost.
I took the elevator this time, too exhausted to climb the stairs. The ride up was silent, the small box of the elevator feeling like a prison cell. Fourth floor.
The moment the doors opened onto the surgical wing, I felt that familiar wave of clinical terror wash over me. I walked slowly down the corridor, passing the nurses and doctors who moved with a detached sense of purpose. They were the ones in control. I was the one begging for scraps of humanity.
I stopped right outside Room 412. There was a sign taped to the door, a warning about isolation procedures, but behind that door was the only person who mattered in my entire world. Philip Williams. My Pop.
I looked around the corridor. It was clean, silent, and entirely unforgiving. There were no comfortable waiting chairs right here, only a stretch of gleaming, empty floor. I didn't care.
I didn't try to look tough. I didn't try to look composed. I just wanted to disappear.
I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the polished floor, the cold marble seeping through my wet clothes and hitting my bones. I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapped my arms around my legs, and rested my chin on my knees, trying to make myself as small as possible. This was it. This was my post. The breadwinner, defeated, guarding a door she couldn't open.
I watched the clock on the wall. Hours passed. The sound of distant alarms and intercom announcements became background noise. My body stopped shaking from the cold and started shaking from exhaustion. I felt numb, watching the world move in slow motion, waiting for the inevitable. The clock was ticking down the forty eight hours, and I was powerless to stop it.
I remember thinking: If he dies, I will stay right here. I will just become part of the floor.
Then, a new sound cut through the low hospital hum. Not a machine, but soft, specific footsteps. They weren't rushing; they were coming directly toward me.
I lifted my head slowly. Standing over me was the nurse, the kind one, the one who had rushed me into the side room when I had the panic attack. She looked down at me, her expression professional, but not entirely cold.
She knelt down a little, her voice low and careful.
"Ms. Williams? Edora, is it? I was asked to find you."
I just stared, my eyes heavy. "Why?" I croaked out.
She glanced down the empty corridor, making sure no one was close enough to listen.
"A gentleman. He said he had an… offer for you. Something about a business arrangement."
A business arrangement? My mind fumbled. Who would be offering me a business arrangement? A catering job? A loan shark? It made no sense.
The nurse sighed softly, her expression shifting to one of genuine concern. "I don't know what it's about, dear. But he seemed very serious. And he was very clear."
She reached into the pocket of her scrubs and pulled out a small, heavy rectangle.
It wasn't paper. It was thick and black. Metal.
She held it out to me.
"He asked me to give you this. He said he would wait until midnight for a call"
My wet, trembling fingers reached out and took the card. It was cold and heavy in my palm. I looked down at it, squinting against the soft light of the corridor. The card wasn't flashy, but the simple, silver embossing spoke of staggering, untouchable wealth.
The name was centered across the top in a sharp, intimidating font. The title was below it.
WILSON GATES
CEO, Gates Industries
My breath hitched. The arrogant, cold man from the lobby who I learned his name to be Wilson. The one who told me to pick up my trash. He hadn't just walked away.
The nurse squeezed my shoulder gently. "Please, just look at it. You have nothing to lose by talking to him."
I gripped the cold metal card, staring at the contact number etched beneath his name. I didn't understand the offer, but the cold, hard weight of that card felt like the only solid thing left in my world.
The clock was ticking. The deadline was getting closer. And I felt the man who had dismissed my problems as "trash" is about to offer me a way out.