“Okay. Okay, that’s fine.” She reached for my hand. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”
Then I delivered the next part of my story.
“The treatment is expensive. More than I can afford.”
She frowned.
“But you have insurance.”
“It won’t cover enough.”
“What about your parents?”
“They can’t help this time.”
I mentioned an enormous amount, knowing she couldn’t possibly raise it.
She repeated the figure.
“That much?”
I nodded.
After several seconds of silence, she asked, “How much time do we have to find it?”
I’d expected questions about whether I still had money.
Instead, she wanted to know our deadline.
“I don’t know,” I said.
She took out her phone.
“Then we need to find out.”
Over the next two days, Skyla worked almost constantly.
She researched treatment centers, financial assistance programs, payment arrangements, and second opinions.
Between classes, she’d call me.
