Chapter 3 Too Much to Ask

Suddenly, the operating room doors burst open. The doctor emerged, peeling off his mask, his face so grave it sent a chill straight through me.

"Sir, her condition is worse than we expected. She needs a more extensive procedure immediately, and we'll need another 20,000 dollars."

My throat tightened. "What happens if I can't pay?"

"We'll continue with conservative treatment, but her chances of survival will be less than thirty percent. Even if she survives, she could face serious long-term complications."

A bitter laugh almost escaped me. 'Twenty thousand? I barely have two dollars.'

Still, I forced myself to speak. "Doctor, please. Just do the surgery. I'll find the money."

I was practically begging him, but the doctor only sighed. "I'm sorry. There's only so much I can authorize without payment. We'll do everything we can for her, but you should prepare yourself for the worst."

He walked away, leaving me stranded in the hallway. My legs buckled, and I collapsed onto the cold, white tiles, numb and hollow.

I'd begged, borrowed, pleaded for loans, even sold my plasma. After everything, I was back at square one, clueless where to find another twenty grand.

…

A moment later, my phone buzzed.

I nearly let it buzz unanswered, but a breaking-news alert flashed on the screen, demanding my attention.

"Reese Sampson, CEO of the Sampson Group, spends one billion on a private island."

I gaped at the headline, stunned, and tapped it with trembling fingers.

Reese's name was plastered everywhere, dominating the news cycle.

In the first photo, she stood on a private beach in a designer gown, her arm wrapped around a young man I recognized immediately.

It was Joe Woods, her college sweetheart and first love—the man she'd never truly gotten over.

According to the article, Reese spent one billion buying Joe a private island where he could escape work stress and find some peace. She was even quoted as saying, "He's been under a lot of pressure lately. He deserves a place that's completely his own."

Another photo showed her and Joe strolling hand in hand along the sand, picture-perfect as if they'd stepped out of a romance film. The comments section overflowed with adoration.

"This is what true love looks like."

"She treats him like a king."

"Rich people really do romance differently."

"Now, that's true love."

I stared at Reese's radiant smile on the screen, and something inside me turned to ice.

She could drop one billion for Joe's private paradise, but wouldn't spare 3,000 dollars when I pleaded for her mother's life.

Right then, a piercing alarm sounded from inside the operating room.

My head snapped up as doctors and nurses rushed past. I scrambled to my feet, pressing to the door's tiny window, watching them swarm around Linda.

Everyone moved in a blur, but the heart monitor's waves faded with each second. I stood powerless, watching them shrink until the line surrendered to silence.

A long, continuous beep filled the room.

I stood rooted outside the door, eyes fixed through the glass.

I'd borrowed, begged, pleaded for loans, even sold my blood, all to save a woman who never once called me family.

Yet, her own daughter had refused to help her.

I slumped against the wall and let my eyes drift shut.

Fine. If her own daughter didn't care if she lived or died, then why should I?

…

A few minutes later, the operating room doors opened again. The doctor stepped out and shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry. We did everything we could."

I nodded without saying a word.

A nurse approached me and asked gently, "Would you like some help making arrangements? We work with a local funeral home."

I swallowed hard. "How much?"

"The most basic cremation package, including an urn, starts at 3,800 dollars."

For a split second, I nearly laughed. I thought, 'If I'd scraped together that much just hours ago, maybe Linda would still be breathing.'

"I don't have that much," I said. "What if I only pay for the cremation? I can get the urn myself."

The nurse hesitated. "That would be about 2,000 dollars."

"Can you make it any cheaper?"

She looked at me with pity in her eyes. "The absolute lowest we can do is 1,500 dollars. That's basically at cost."

I nodded. "Okay."

Penniless, I left the hospital and wandered until I found a pawn shop a few blocks away.

…

Once inside, I took off my watch and placed it on the counter. "How much can I get for this?"

It was the only thing I owned with any value. My dad had given me that old mechanical watch before he died. It was never worth much, but to me, it was beyond price.

The owner picked it up and gave it a quick look. "Two hundred."

"Can you do any better?"

He examined it again, then set it down. "Two-fifty. That's my limit."

I gazed at the watch for a moment. It was one of the few things I had left of my father, and I knew I would never get it back once I pawned it.

But Linda still lay in the hospital, awaiting cremation.

"Fine." I pushed the watch toward him, then pulled out my phone and placed it on the counter. "What about this?"

The owner looked it over. "Eight hundred."

That totaled 1,050 dollars. I was still 450 dollars short.

I stood there, racking my brain for anything else to sell. My gaze dropped to my sneakers.

They were the only decent shoes I had.

After hesitating for a moment, I took them off and slid them across the counter. "What about these?"

The owner looked at me, then down at the shoes.

For a second, neither of us said anything.

Then, he pushed them back toward me. "Keep your shoes, man. I don't buy used sneakers."