Page 2 of Traded & Bred By the Bratva
Today, I see concern and exhaustion.
Neither is good.
"Ms. Noble," she says gently.
“Sydney,” I automatically correct her as I stand. "What happened?"
"Nothing new."
Relief crashes through me so quickly my knees almost give out.Nothing new.
Those two words have become the best and worst things I hear every day.
Nothing worse. Nothing better. Just suspended in the same holding pattern or waiting.
She gestures toward the hallway. "Can we talk?"
I already know what this conversation is about, and dread sinks heavy in my stomach as I follow her outside. “Be right back,” I call to Ben as I exit the door. The fluorescent lights in the hallway are too bright, and I squint against them.
"The hospital's financial department has been attempting to contact you," Dr. Patel says.
I stare at the floor. "Yeah." A beat passes.
"You haven't returned their calls."
"No."
Her sigh is soft and understanding, which somehow makes it worse. She briefly touches my arm. "You need to get back to them. We know we’re going to have to explore long-term treatment possibilities." She’s talking about hospice, or if we’re lucky and Ben wakes up, rehabilitation and home care. Every option comes with another terrifying number attached to it. I know because I've spent the last six weeks memorizing them.
"What are we talking about now?" I ask quietly.
The doctor hesitates. “I don’t know the exact numbers, but the projected costs continue to increase."
Projected costs.I almost laugh.
That's a polite way of saying I should stop trying to tread water because there’s no longer a chance of avoiding drowning.
Yesterday I opened the latest bill from the hospital. Eighty-seven thousand dollars. I stared at the bill for nearly ten minutes before my mind could process the number.
Eighty-seven thousand dollars.
I dropped out of college, traded my dorm room for a tiny apartment in a bad part of town, and work two jobs to pay rent and bills. My savings account is empty and my credit cards are maxed out.
Yet somehow, the universe expects me to come up with eighty-seven fucking thousand fucking dollars.
"Right," I say. My voice sounds hollow.
Dr. Patel studies me. "You don't have to shoulder this alone."
I want to ask who exactly is volunteering to help. The hospital? The insurance company? I’ve spoken to both, and all they can offer are payment plans and reduced interest. Instead, I smile politely. "Thank you."
Dr. Patel squeezes my arm. “Reach out to friends and family. Ask someone to start a crowd-sourcing fund for you.”
I nod, avoiding her gaze. The few friends I have are just as broke as me. The same is true for Ben’s friends. And there is no family. It’s always just been Ben and me, ever since Dad died.
Dr. Patel walks off to see to other patients, and I return to Ben's room and sit back down. As the door clicks shut, the silence closes around me immediately. For several minutes, I just stare at the wall.
Eighty-seven thousand dollars.
