I pulled the chair close. Sat. "You collapsed, Dad."
"Just tired." His hand lifted weakly, gesture aborted halfway. "Don't need all this."
He always said that.
I took his hand. Squeezed gently.
"You're staying overnight," I said. "Doctor's orders."
His eyes drifted shut.
"We can't afford this," he whispered.
We couldn't afford not to.
Visiting hours ended at eight. A nurse touched my shoulder—kind but firm—and I left Dad sleeping under thin white blankets that smelled like bleach and something medicinal I couldn't name.
The drive home passed in fragments. Streetlights. Empty intersections. The lake dark and still beyond the guardrail.
I parked in the driveway and sat for five minutes before going inside.
The house waited, silent except for the refrigerator's hum. I pulled out vegetables Dad had bought last week. Carrots. Celery. An onion sprouting green shoots I cut away before dicing.
Soup seemed right. The kind of thing you made when someone was sick, when normal meals felt too heavy. I chopped without measuring. Added broth from a carton that expired next month. Let it simmer while I stood at the stove, stirring nothing that needed stirring.
The bowl sat untouched on the counter after I poured it. Steam curled upward, dissipating into kitchen air that tasted like worry.
I carried my laptop to the table instead.
Bills first. The stack I'd been avoiding since last week spread across the scratched wood surface—hospital invoice on top now, pristine and bloodless. Four thousand, two hundred dollars after insurance. Due within thirty days.
Calculator next. The small one with the crack across the screen that still worked if I pressed hard enough.
Rent: twelve hundred.
Utilities: two-fifty.
Bookstore lease: eight hundred.
Inventory costs: variable, but never less than three.
The hospital bill stared back, unblinking.
I opened the bank statement. Checked the bookstore account. Personal savings.
Added them.
Subtracted obligations.
The number that remained couldn't be right.
I tried again. Different order this time, like mathematics cared about sequence. Same result. Negative before I'd even counted groceries or gas or the property tax due next month.
We can't afford this., Dad's voice echoed in my head.
He'd been wrong.
We couldn't afford anything.
