She looked at me.

“I thought maybe I could do that for you.”

I couldn’t answer.

She touched the papers.

“I don’t have the money you’re asking for. But I found people who might help us understand what comes next.”

I looked at the worn recipe card, then at her ink-stained hands.

Five days of work, all because she’d believed me.

I tried thanking her, but my voice broke.

I covered my face and began sobbing.

Skyla moved closer.

“Archie?”

I shook my head, unable to stop crying.

“Hey,” she said softly. “It’s okay.”

“Skyla, what have you done?!”

She reached for my hand.

And suddenly, I understood that allowing her to comfort me without confessing would only deepen my betrayal.

“Skyla, I’m not sick.”

She stared.

“What?”

“There’s no diagnosis. No treatment.”

For an instant, relief crossed her face.

“The doctors made a mistake?”