Emily's POV
The hundred-dollar bill was a warm, confusing spot in Emily's pocket. All morning, as she wiped tables and refilled coffee pots, her mind circled around it like a nervous bird. You deserve a break. She'd almost convinced herself to believe it. Maybe it was just a kind stranger. A weird, rich, silent kind of stranger.
She used five dollars of it during her break to buy the biggest, strongest latte on the menu, with an extra shot. She deserved it, right? The rest, she decided, would go straight to the pharmacy after her shift. It would cover one of Mom's prescriptions, the one for the nausea that wasn't covered by insurance. For a single hour, the crushing weight on her chest felt a tiny bit lighter.
That's when her phone rang.
It wasn't Grinder's custom ringtone (she'd set it to a jarring, loud buzz). This was the gentle chime she used for the hospital.
Her blood, which had just begun to warm, turned to ice again. Calls from the hospital in the middle of the day were never good. Good news could wait until visiting hours.
Her hands were suddenly slick with sweat. She fumbled the phone, almost dropping it into a sink full of dirty dishes.
"Hello?" Her voice was tight.
"Emily? Hi, it's Nurse Amy from Bayview Medical." The nurse's voice was kind, professionally soft. "How are you, honey?"
"I'm at work," Emily said, dodging the question. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. "Is it my mom? Is she okay?"
"She's stable," Nurse Amy said quickly, and Emily's knees went weak with relief. "She's resting. But Dr. Evans is here doing rounds. He'd like to speak with you about her treatment plan. Do you have a minute?"
Stable. But the doctor wanted to talk. That was the catch. Stable was just the pause before bad news.
"I… yes. Hold on." Emily looked around wildly. Linda was at the register with a customer. Emily caught her eye and held up her phone, mouthing "Hospital." Linda's face softened, and she pointed urgently toward the back office.
Emily fled to the small, cluttered room, closing the door behind her. She sat on an old milk crate, surrounded by boxes of napkins and industrial-sized syrup containers. "I'm here."
"Emily, it's Dr. Evans." The doctor's voice was calm, measured. He was a good man. He never sugarcoated things. "I'm with your mother now. She's comfortable. But we've gotten the latest scan results back."
Emily held her breath.
"The current chemotherapy regimen… it's not working as well as we'd hoped," Dr. Evans said gently. "The tumors have shown some resistance. They've grown slightly since our last imaging."
The words landed like physical blows. Not working. Resistant. Grown. Each one was a door slamming shut.
"No," Emily whispered, the word escaping like a plea.
"I'm sorry," Dr. Evans said, and he sounded like he meant it. "But it's not all bad news. There is another option. A new form of targeted therapy. It's a pill, not an IV. It's designed to attack the cancer cells much more specifically, with fewer side effects. The early trial data are very promising."
A tiny, desperate flame of hope flickered in the dark pit of Emily's stomach. "A pill? That sounds… that sounds better. Can she start it?"
"There's a significant barrier, Emily," Dr. Evans said, his tone shifting to one of grim practicality. "It's very new. It's not yet approved for widespread insurance coverage. It's considered 'investigational' for her specific cancer profile."
The flame sputtered. She knew what that meant. "How much?"
A pause. "The cost is approximately two thousand dollars per month. And she would likely need it for a minimum of six months to see if it's effective."
The numbers hung in the air, huge and impossible. Two thousand times six. Twelve thousand dollars. On top of the five thousand she owed Grinder. On top of rent, food, and utilities. It was a mountain on top of a mountain. She couldn't even see the summit.
"I…" Her voice cracked. "I don't have that."
"I know it's an overwhelming amount," Dr. Evans said. "I've given the information to our financial counseling office. They can talk to you about payment plans, charitable foundations, and anything that might help. But Emily, we need to decide fairly quickly. If we're going to switch treatments, time is important."
A payment plan. For twelve thousand dollars, she didn't have. Charitable foundations that had waiting lists longer than her mother's lifespan.
"Okay," she said, her voice hollow. "Thank you, Doctor. I'll… I'll talk to them."
"Call them today, Emily. And give your mother a hug for me. She's a fighter."
The call ended. Emily sat in the silent office, the phone still pressed to her ear. The buzz of the café outside sounded like it was coming from another planet. The smell of coffee beans, usually comforting, now made her feel sick.
Twelve thousand dollars.
It wasn't a number. It was a death sentence. It was the sound of a clock ticking down, not to Friday, but to something much, much worse.
A sob ripped out of her, harsh and ugly. Then another. She curled forward, wrapping her arms around her knees, her forehead pressing into her legs. She cried silently, her body shaking with the force of it. She cried for her mom, who was so brave and so sick. She cried for the sheer, unfair cruelty of a world where money meant life. She cried because she was twenty-four years old and so, so tired, and there was no one to help her carry this.
She cried until her throat was raw and her head throbbed with a dehydration headache. She had to stop. She had to go back out there. Linda couldn't cover for her forever.
She stood up on shaky legs, went to the small sink in the corner, and splashed icy water on her face. She avoided looking in the smudged mirror above it. She didn't want to see the red, swollen eyes, the despair etched on her face.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she opened the office door and stepped back into the café.
The lunch rush hadn't started yet. A couple of students typed on laptops. An old man read a newspaper. The world had kept turning.
Her eyes, almost against her will, went to the corner booth.
It was empty. He'd left hours ago.
But on the dark wood of his table, something sat.
Not a cup. Not a crumb.
A single, plain black rectangle.
From across the room, it looked like a hole cut out of the table. A piece of nothingness.
Her feet moved before her brain could tell them not to. She walked across the café, her wet cheeks forgotten, her heart doing a strange, slow thud.
She reached the table. She stared down.
It was a business card. But unlike any business card she'd ever seen. It was thick, made of a stiff, matte material. It was the black of a starless midnight. No glossy sheen. No raised lettering.
No name. No job title. No company logo.
In the very center of the card, printed in a simple, elegant font, the color of brushed silver, was a phone number.
A local area code. Then seven digits.
That was it.
Her head snapped up. Her eyes scanned the café, then flew to the big front window, searching the street. No sign of him. No silver car idling at the curb.
He was gone. But he'd left this. For her.
The hundred dollars had been confusing. This was terrifying.
This wasn't a gift. This was a line, thrown into the deep water where she was drowning.
And she had no idea if it was attached to a lifeline or an anchor.