I squeeze my eyes shut for one second—one—then open them, because closing them for too long feels like surrender. It feels like letting myself fall apart, and I can’t afford that. Not yet.
I stare at the curtain like I can burn a hole through it with focus alone.
Another burst of sound from the other side, and this time I catch a few words—something about generosity, something about exclusivity—followed by laughter that makes my skin crawl.
My shoulders creep higher toward my ears. I force them down.
The woman moves to stand near me again, not touching now, but close enough that I can smell her perfume—clean, expensive, professional. Like she belongs in a boardroom.
She checks her watch.
“Two minutes,” she says.
Two minutes.
My stomach drops hard.
I can’t do this.
The thought flickers in bright panic, sharp enough to steal my breath.
And then I see my dad’s face again—head tipped back in the recliner, mouth open slightly, the lines around his eyes deeper than they used to be. The way he pretends he isn’t tired. The way he asks if I’ve eaten. The way he tries to joke when he can’t climb the stairs without stopping.
Kidney mass.
The words still don’t sound right in my head. They sound clinical, distant. But it’s our reality. The reality is my father shrinking in front of me while I stand there with empty hands.
Twenty thousand dollars.
I can do anything for twenty thousand dollars.
I can.
I can.
I can.
My nails press into my palms. The pain is small and sharp and grounding.
The woman turns her head, listening to something in her own earpiece. Her expression doesn’t change, but she shifts her weight like the timing is tightening.
A voice rises on the other side of the curtain—smooth, practiced, louder than the rest. The host. The microphone. The room settling into anticipation.
“And now,” he says, voice carrying. “We have something special.”
A ripple of reaction. Low sounds. Someone whistles. Someone laughs.
My mouth goes completely dry.
The woman’s gaze slides to me, assessing. Like she can see the fear trying to climb out of my skin.
“Smile,” she murmurs.
I try.
I think I do.
My lips lift a fraction. It probably looks like a grimace. It probably looks like I’m about to cry. I force my jaw to loosen.
