Chapter 86 — The Weight of Healing
The office fell silent for a few seconds.
In the end, Beth was the first to speak.
"Doctor… I'd like to ask about the cost of treatment."
Randall glanced at her instinctively but didn't interrupt.
Beth looked at Ethan, her tone steady and sincere.
"We understand… treatment like this can't be cheap."
Ethan didn't dodge the question.
"For the formal treatment targeting the tumor itself—
the fee is one hundred thousand dollars."
---
The room went quiet.
Not because it was expensive—
But because, after standing at the edge of life and death, the number suddenly felt… grounded. Real.
And, strangely, lower than expected.
Randall didn't hesitate for even a second.
"No problem."
"Should we pay it all at once, or—"
"Either is fine," Ethan said calmly.
"You can pay in full, or in installments."
"I don't charge interest. And I don't require any collateral."
There was no trace of generosity or condescension in his tone—
just a simple statement of policy.
---
Beth let out a quiet breath.
"If that covers the full treatment… then it's within our reach."
"…We'll just need a little time to prepare."
Ethan nodded.
"By the clinic's rules, payment is due before the second formal treatment."
"You can also take William to the hospital for a follow-up over the next few days."
"Confirm whether there's real improvement—then decide whether to continue."
He paused slightly.
"That's your right."
---
Randall looked at him, almost disbelieving.
"So… we confirm improvement first, then pay, and proceed with the next treatment?"
"Yes." Ethan nodded.
---
Beth and Randall exchanged a glance, both a little stunned.
They had never encountered a system like this.
It sounded like no results, no charge—
but in reality, it carried an unspoken certainty:
You will pay. Sooner or later, you will.
It wasn't just confidence in effectiveness—
it was complete indifference to doubt, delay, or even risk.
---
Randall carefully chose his words.
"If it's not too forward… may I ask—
patients with similar cancer cases you've treated before… what happened to them?"
Ethan answered simply:
"If you're asking whether they paid—yes, they all did."
"And of course, they all recovered."
Then he added, almost casually:
"But that's just me saying it. You don't have to believe me."
"So I still recommend you go for a hospital check."
"And prepare yourselves… for the possibility that the hospital might call it a misdiagnosis."
---
Ethan glanced at the clock on the wall.
It was already close to six.
Beth spoke softly, "We should get going."
Randall nodded and returned to the treatment room.
---
Ethan stood and walked them to the door.
Randall carefully pushed William's wheelchair through the vestibule.
This time, William no longer slumped forward like before.
He could sit upright—barely—but steadily, his back supported by the chair.
His face was still pale, but there was unmistakably more life in him now.
---
As they reached the door, their pace slowed.
William suddenly turned his head and looked at Ethan.
"Doctor… do you like jazz?"
Ethan blinked, slightly surprised.
"Sometimes."
William smiled faintly, but there was a spark in his eyes—something long absent.
"I've written some jazz piano pieces… if I can still play."
He paused, his voice soft but earnest.
"Next time I come… I'll play one for you."
---
This time, Ethan didn't just respond out of politeness.
He met William's gaze and nodded sincerely.
"I'll be looking forward to it."
---
For the first time, William seemed to truly let go of something.
A quiet smile settled on his face.
---
Randall pushed the wheelchair forward again.
Outside, the sky had already darkened.
Randall opened the car door and carefully helped William into the back seat.
This time, he wasn't being lifted in.
He moved on his own—slowly, deliberately—using what strength he had to sit down.
---
As the door closed, Randall straightened up.
He turned back, walked up to Ethan, and extended his hand.
"Thank you, doctor."
He spoke slowly—but with complete sincerity.
Ethan took his hand.
---
The two little girls turned back, standing side by side at the steps, their eyes curved into bright smiles.
"Trick or treat!"
Ethan froze for a second—then it clicked.
He couldn't help but laugh.
"Ah… it's Halloween, isn't it?"
He instinctively checked his pockets, then glanced down at his white coat, spreading his hands with a helpless smile.
"Sorry, princesses. Today you've got a doctor… but no candy."
---
The girls giggled.
The younger one looked up at him, then suddenly stood on tiptoe and gave him a quick hug.
"That's okay," she said softly.
"You made Grandpa better. That's the sweetest candy."
---
Something in Ethan's chest shifted—soft, unexpected.
Then he smiled.
"Happy Halloween."
---
The car's headlights came on, merging into the night beyond the street.
Ethan stood at the clinic entrance, not going back inside right away.
He watched the car drive off—
until its taillights disappeared around the corner.
Only then did he slowly exhale.
---
This wasn't the first time he had pulled someone back from the brink of death.
Nor was it the first time he had faced cancer… or the edge of mortality.
In the past, his patients' reactions had been similar—
Shock.
Ecstasy.
Disbelief.
Gratitude.
Most of them thanked him for giving them a second chance at life—
a kind of joy born from surviving the impossible.
---
But today was different.
What he saw wasn't just William breathing again… opening his eyes again.
He also saw—
Randall's shoulders finally relax.
Beth's long-suppressed tears finally fall.
Two children quietly asking, "Can he still tell us a story?"
---
That wasn't just one person.
That was a whole family.
---
And in that moment, Ethan realized—
He had always thought he was saving a life.
But what he was really saving… was a life being lived.
---
He understood, at last:
"Curing someone" isn't just about stabilizing vitals, restarting organs, or shrinking tumors.
It means—
Someone gets to keep being a father.
Someone gets to keep being a husband.
Someone gets to keep telling bedtime stories.
Someone gets to go home tonight.
---
The feeling was warm.
And heavy.
---
Ethan lowered his gaze, looking at his own hands.
What he had pulled back… wasn't just a person.
It was an entire world of happiness.
---
"Saving one person… is saving an entire world."
"…So this is what that feels like."
---
At that moment, something deep within him responded.
Not a blazing eruption—
But a quiet, steady glow.
A light that had become purer… calmer… stronger.
And it flickered softly within him.