I nodded slowly, even though my mind was screaming. “Okay… so what do we do? Where do we go? How do we make it happen?”
He hesitated before answering, and that pause was worse than anything he’d said so far.
“Well… even with insurance, your out-of-pocket cost could be significant. The surgery, anesthesia, imaging, and recovery care combined can add up to around thirty-five to forty thousand. Depending on your plan, some of it may be covered, but I have to be honest—most families in your position end up needing assistance.”
I didn’t say anything.
That number just sat in the room like it was staring at me.
“Of course, we have social workers who can help look into grants or emergency funding, but that takes time. It takes a lot of paperwork, a lot of waitlists, but Zurie doesn’t have time to wait.”
I nodded, but it felt like something inside me was crumbling.
“I’ll figure something out,” I said, even though I had no clue what that could be.
He gave me a soft look and nodded. “She’s resting now. She’s stable, but she’ll need monitoring tonight, and we’ll keep a close eye on her in the neuro wing.”
I thanked him, stood up, and walked back down the hallway in a blur. The fluorescent lights above me felt too bright, the floor too shiny, and everything too loud and too quiet at the same time.
When I stepped back into Zurie’s room, the first thing I noticed was how small she looked in the hospital bed. Her skin was pale, and her lips were dry. Her curls were pushed back under a thin cap from the EEG, and the wires were trailed from her chest to the monitors nearby. She wasn’t on life support, but she was still.
Her eyes were closed, and every now and then she’d twitch, just slightly, like her body hadn’t fully come back from what it went through. A nurse had tucked a stuffed animal beside her—one of those old teddy bears with one button eye—and even that looked tired.
I sat down in the chair next to her and stared at her for a long time. This little girl, who still needed help tying her shoes, who still asked me to read her bedtime stories, who still called me “sissy” when she was scared… this baby didn’t deserve none of this. Not the seizures, the hospital rooms or the bullshit back home.
She deserved a real childhood.
I didn’t have forty thousand dollars. I didn’t even have four hundred in my account right now. And Mama…She was probably still knocked out on that damn medication. She wasn’t the one making calls, asking questions, or pacing hospital hallways. That was me. It had always been me.
I sat with my head in my hands, trying to think of anything that could help. A loan? A fundraiser? Selling plasma? I’d haveto rob a damn bank to come up with that kind of money. And then Kashmere’s voice popped in my head.
“That man is giving away two-fifty.”
Pressure… That ridiculous arranged marriage contest. The ad had been everywhere. All over Instagram, blogs, even the radio. They were still looking for a few more girls. Kashmere had already sent me the link last week, so I pulled out my phone and scrolled through our texts until I found it.
You need to at least look at it, P. Just look. 250K could save Zurie.
I clicked the link and it took me to a clean, flashy landing page.“Who Will Be Crowned the Next Diamond of Trill-Land?”
There was a short video of Pressure walking in slow motion, his shirt off and smoke around him like he was made of gold. It looked like a movie trailer. At the bottom, there was a big purple button that saidAPPLY NOW.
I looked over at Zurie again. Her chest rose and fell slowly, but barely.
I swallowed hard and tapped the button.
The form asked for everything—Full name. Age. Bio. Background. Why I should be chosen. Three to five recent photos. Socials. Contact info. Personality questions. I answered every line like my sister’s life depended on it—because it did.
I found some decent pictures in my phone, ones Kashmere had taken of me when we went out a few weeks ago and uploaded them. I kept typing, adding everything about me that I could think of.
By the time I hit submit, the sun was starting to rise. Orange light spilled through the cracks in the window blinds, and Zurie was still asleep.
I looked at her one more time, then leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes.
This wasn’t about fame or about Pressure Mensah. This was about survival.
I had no clue what I was walking into, but I knew why I was doing it, and I hoped that would be enough.
Moss Point
