Maggie spent hours on the phone with the billing office, her voice polite but fraying. Every night she told Clara not to worry, but the dark crescents under her eyes said otherwise. That evening, Clara’s fever climbed sharply. Her breaths came shallow, her fingers trembling as she reached for her mother’s arm. “Call him,” she whispered. “Just… call Evan.”
Maggie hesitated, then nodded, stepping into the hallway. Clara heard only her mother’s voice through the thin wall — low, steady, trying not to break. “Evan, it’s Maggie,” she began. “Clara’s not well. The doctors say she needs another round of treatment — soon. I’m asking if you can help, or at least be here for her.”