1
CLARA
He’s only four.
Still counts on his fingers.
Sleeps with a stuffed Iron Man.
Believes pancakes can fix anything.
And now Dr. Patel—the one who’s been here for every scan, every midnight phone call—is telling me he might not live to see his next birthday… unless a surgeon opens his tiny chest and saves him.
The air feels too clean.
The truth too cruel.
Across from me, Dr. Patel closes Matty’s file. Slowly. Carefully.
“Clara…” she says my name like she’s easing me into the worst part. “His heart won’t hold out much longer.”
The words hit like a sucker punch. My lungs forget how to breathe.
My throat burns, and I grip the chair until my knuckles ache.
Matty’s sleeping in the bed next to us, pale cheeks, lips with that faint blue tinge I hate. The monitor hums quietly beside him.
His hands are wrapped around his battered Iron Man plush, knuckles tight like it’s the thing holding him together.
“What are my options?” I manage to ask.
She leans forward, resting her forearms on her knees. “Surgery. Full bypass. Then recovery—physical therapy, then follow-up care.” She pauses, watching my face like she’s weighing every word.
My stomach twists. “I’ve got state insurance, but they said?—”
Her expression tightens. I can tell she hates this. “It won’t cover all of it. The surgery alone is six figures. Recovery, medications, equipment…” She exhales through her nose.
“You mentioned a family trust once?”
My stomach knots. I know where this is going, and the thought alone feels like opening a door I swore shut.
I nod. “My brother Stephan left it. But it’s in Blackthorn Falls, and the trustees require me to appear in person to claim it. No exceptions. His lawyer is… old-fashioned.”
“We’d operate tomorrow if we could,” she adds gently, “but until you’ve secured the funding, my hands are tied. You need to move quickly, Clara—weeks, not months.”
She hesitates. “Could you go back?”
Back.
Back to the town that buried my brother—and the secrets that nearly buried me with him.
“I left to protect my son,” I say quietly.
“I know,” she says. “But I also know you’ll do whatever it takes. And, Clara… this is what it takes.”
I look at Matty—those long lashes resting against flushed cheeks, his shallow breaths. I think about every night I’ve sat up holding him through coughing fits, every ER trip that ended with a pat on the arm and no real answers.
I’ve memorized every shade of his pain.
