Andrew spent another five days at the hospital.
The first day blurred. He slept in broken pieces, waking up when nurses checked his blood pressure or when someone shouted down the hall. The second day, they moved him out of the emergency room into a patient ward. The air felt different there. Less urgent. Still crowded.
The ward had six beds, curtains that didn't close all the way, and one electric fan that pointed at whoever complained the loudest. His bed was near the window. Outside, he could see a slice of Manila traffic moving slow.
A bandage wrapped his shoulder. Another sat on his ribs. The pain came when he tried to twist, or when he laughed at something on the TV across the room.
People came and went.
A man in the next bed talked on speakerphone like the whole ward needed his business updates. An old woman prayed quietly with a rosary. A teenage boy scrolled on his phone, eyes empty, thumb moving like a machine.
Andrew kept his own phone under the blanket.
The system stayed with him, floating at the edge of his vision when he thought about it. It never blinked out. It never asked if he was ready. It just waited.
His mother visited every day. Sometimes she brought rice porridge in a plastic container. Sometimes she brought nothing but news.
"They said they found the truck operator," she told him on the third day, sitting on the chair by his bed. "The company sent someone. They took photos. They asked for the report. They said they will cover. They keep repeating it like a script."
"Did they give anything in writing?" Andrew asked.
His mother shook her head. "Not yet. They said 'processing.'"
"Okay," Andrew said. "We keep copies of everything."
She nodded and dug into her bag, pulling out a folder. Inside were receipts, forms, photocopies, and a handwritten list of names and numbers. She had done it like a job.
Andrew looked at the folder and felt something in his chest loosen. Not relief. Something closer to trust.
On the fifth day, a nurse told him he could walk around as long as he didn't leave the building and didn't do anything stupid.
Andrew waited until his mother stepped out to buy water.
He sat up slowly, swung his legs down, and stood.
His knees shook for a second. He grabbed the bed rail and waited for the dizziness to pass. When it didn't hit, he took one step. Then another.
The ward floor was cold under his slippers.
He walked out into the hallway.
No one stopped him. Two nurses passed him carrying trays. A doctor brushed by without looking.
Andrew kept his head down and walked toward the elevator. Each step pulled at his ribs. He breathed through it.
On the ground floor, the lobby smelled like fast food and disinfectant. There was a line at the cashier window. A few people sat on benches holding envelopes.
And near the entrance, beside a pharmacy kiosk, stood an ATM.
Andrew's eyes locked on it.
He slowed down, scanning the room again. Security guard by the door, bored, leaning on the wall. Families moving in and out. A man arguing at the counter.
No one cared about him.
He patted his pocket.
His wallet was there. Worn leather, edges cracked. His ID. A few bills folded tight. His ATM card.
He walked to the machine.
His fingers felt clumsy as he slid the card in. He typed his PIN.
The screen loaded.
He chose balance inquiry first.
The machine processed, then showed a number in pesos.
[Current Bal: 5,000,530]
Andrew stared at it and blinked. The number was still there.
"Five million," he let out a small murmur. "It's true."
Andrew backed out of the balance screen and chose Withdraw. His thumb hovered for a second. He picked a larger amount this time. Something that would have scared him yesterday.
Twenty thousand.
Confirm.
The machine hummed. The slot opened. Bills slid out.
He took them with both hands. Counted once. Counted again. It was real, the system gave him one hundred thousand dollars and was converted into Philippine Peso.
This is a life changing money for him. He could pay off the debts, move out to a more secure place to live, study in college, and even start a business. This is truly a miracle and a blessing.
He kept the fresh 20,000 (400USD) in his wallet and proceeded back to the patient ward.
Once he arrived, he laid down onto his bed and sighed.
There's much to learn about the system and he'll study it once he is discharged from the hospital. For now, he'll have to wait for the doctor's orders to clear him.
Two days later, the clearance came.
The doctor didn't make it dramatic. He flipped through the chart, tapped a pen against the clipboard, and nodded.
"You're stable," he said. "No internal bleeding. Soft tissue injuries only. Continue the meds, no heavy lifting, no work for at least two weeks."
Andrew nodded. "Yes, doc."
"Follow-up in a month," the doctor added. "And don't be a hero."
Andrew almost smiled at that.
By noon, he was dressed in his old clothes. The same faded shirt, the same jeans with a loose seam at the knee. His mother handled the discharge papers, arguing politely but firmly at the billing window. Andrew stood behind her, holding a plastic bag with his medicine and the folded hospital gown.
They didn't charge them anything upfront. The truck company's representative had finally signed. Everything was "to be settled."
His mother still looked suspicious until they were outside.
The sun hit his face as they stepped onto the sidewalk. Heat, noise, exhaust fumes—Manila, exactly as he remembered it.
"You okay?" his mother asked.
"Yeah," Andrew said. "Just sore."
They took a jeepney home. He sat near the back, careful when the vehicle lurched forward. His mother held onto the rail with one hand and her bag with the other.
As they crossed into Tondo, the streets narrowed. The buildings leaned closer together. Clotheslines crisscrossed above the road. Children played barefoot near open drainage. Vendors shouted over each other.
Nothing had changed.
The jeepney stopped near an alley barely wide enough for two people to pass. Andrew stepped down slowly. His mother followed.
They walked in.
The smell hit first—fried oil, damp concrete, something sour from the canal. Their house sat halfway down the alley, a patched structure of plywood, scrap metal, and hollow blocks. The roof sagged slightly on one side. A tarp covered a section that leaked during heavy rain.
Andrew stopped in front of it.
For a moment, he just looked.
"You sit," his mother said, unlocking the door. "I'll open."
The door creaked as she pushed it in. Inside was dim, cooler than outside. A single bulb hung from the ceiling. A small table. A thin mattress on the floor. Shelves cluttered with containers and folded clothes.
"Brother!"
Two voices at once.
His brother ran out first, small arms wrapping around Andrew's waist before his mother could stop him.
"Oy—careful," Andrew said, wincing but laughing.
His sister followed, slower, eyes wide like she wasn't sure if he was real.
"You're home," she said.
"Yeah," Andrew replied. "I'm home."
His mother scolded them lightly and pushed them back. "Let him breathe. He's still injured."
They hovered anyway.
Andrew lowered himself onto the plastic chair near the wall. The chair complained under his weight. He didn't mind. What he had in mind was the system.
It's time for him to check it.