I stared at the thick envelope and the small, worn bankbook beside it. Tessa’s hands were bruised, and her eyes were hollow. “Open it,” she whispered. Inside was a stack of cash, tied with a rubber band, and a handwritten list of every job she had worked. My throat tightened. Then I noticed the bandage on her arm, and the faint smell of a hospital clung to her sleeve.

“I sold my car,” she said quietly. “I picked up double shifts at the diner, and I donated plasma twice a week.” My chest ached. She slid one more paper across the table, and her voice cracked. “But that was not enough, Caleb. So I did something else, and I need you to read this before you say a word.” The letterhead at the top read St. Anne’s Medical Center.