Matthew's condition was deteriorating — the radioactive energy kept burrowing deeper, destroying everything in its path. If it reached his brain — survival was no longer guaranteed.
One look at how weak he was told the whole story. It was the middle of the afternoon and he'd been flat in bed. Just saying a few sentences had brought cold sweat to his forehead. Maya didn't need to ask. She already knew his skull felt like it was being split open from the inside.
He'd been enduring that, every moment, for an entire week. And he was still forcing himself to talk, as if it were nothing.
Maya felt genuine, quiet respect settle in her chest. Then she glanced at herself — hadn't she screamed and whimpered the moment her own body was being reconfigured into a ninja's physique? That had taken all of a few minutes. A faint warmth crept into her cheeks.
The front door rattled.
Maya straightened, her cultivation stopping. A big man filled the doorway — at least 195 cm, broad-shouldered, somewhere in his mid-thirties. Red hair, a hard square jaw, heavy stubble. Matthew's father.
Before the stunned man could speak, Maya was already on her feet.
"Hello. You must be Matthew's father. Matthew has been absent for a week with no word from the family — the school was concerned, so the student council sent us for a home visit."
Matthew scrambled upright. "Dad — this is President Hansen. She came personally."
Old Murdock rubbed the back of his head, sheepish. "Sorry about that, miss. I... forgot to call the school to excuse his absence."
He pulled out two Big Macs and a bag of chicken legs from a paper bag and set them on the table. "This is Matthew's lunch. Please, take a chicken leg."
"Lunch?!" Nana rounded on him first, then immediately softened her gaze toward Matthew. "You hadn't eaten yet?! Why didn't you say something?!"
Maya looked at the food. It was past four in the afternoon. Lunch. She kept the question — Do you think you're Spanish? — firmly to herself.
"Nana," she said. "Take Matthew to his room and eat. I need to speak with Mr. Murdock."
Nana's eyes lit up — Matthew's room — and she guided him through the door with a burger in hand.
Alone with old Murdock, Maya picked up a chicken leg and took a small bite. The effect was immediate: the man who'd been hovering awkwardly in the center of the room visibly relaxed, and broke into a slightly dopey grin.
"It's good," Maya said simply, setting it down. "Mr. Murdock. Matthew's condition is serious. When we arrived, he was still in bed. Walking a few steps, saying a few words — all of it costs him. He's in pain constantly. You can see it."
The grin faded. Old Murdock's eyes went dark and heavy — the look of a man who already knew and couldn't fix it. He slept in the top bunk. He'd heard every sound Matthew made in the night. The stifled groans, the cold sweats. He knew. He just didn't have the money.
Maya didn't wait for him to speak. She'd already clocked the bruising along the left side of his face.
"The radioactive material was not fully removed. There are traces still embedded in the blood vessels around his eyes — still emitting radiation, still damaging his brain every hour. If nothing is done, his life will be at risk."
She gave him a moment to absorb it. "There's a hospital in Manhattan. They can perform a targeted procedure on the damaged tissue. It won't restore his sight — that's gone. But it will stop the deterioration. Compared to other cases, it's a minor surgery. Matthew will recover."
Old Murdock's face tightened. She recognized that look — he wanted to say yes, but already knew he couldn't.
Maya decided to lie. Just a small one.
"The costs will run a few thousand, possibly up to just over ten thousand dollars. But because Matthew was injured while saving someone, he qualifies for the school's Individual Heroism Award. The student council will cover the medical expenses. All you need to do is bring the itemized receipt to school afterward."
There was no such award. The school had no such fund. But Maya had already made this decision before walking through the door.
Old Murdock's expression shifted several times. Then, slowly: "The truck was carrying waste from Osborn Industries. Osborn should have been paying for this. But Osborn says it's the transport company's fault. The transport company says their procedures were compliant and they're not liable. If... if I could afford a decent lawyer, I'd take them both to court. But as it is..." He shoved both hands into his hair. "We're stuck waiting for them to finish pointing fingers at each other and hope there's a settlement check at the end of it."
Maya said nothing.
By the time that settlement comes, Matthew won't be able to walk.
She produced a notepad and wrote quickly — a checklist: Mr. Murdock's driver's license, Matthew's written request, a hospital note, and an itemized bill. Then she drafted a formal letter for the hospital, stamped it with her personal seal, and slid the whole packet across the table.
"Bring this to the hospital tonight. They'll admit Matthew for the procedure. Tomorrow morning the hospital will call the council office to confirm, and I'll authorize the payment."
She stood. The paperwork was preliminary — there was a chain of administrative headaches waiting for her back at school. That could wait until tomorrow.
"Nana. We're going."
Nana emerged from the bedroom. Old Murdock tried to press the remaining chicken legs into Maya's hands — she'd looked like she enjoyed it, he insisted. Maya sighed internally (I wasn't actually hungry) but accepted to end the conversation.
Old Murdock walked them all the way to the corner before he turned and ran home — to get his son and take him to the hospital.