Chapter 3: Figuring Something Out

I found Jonah outside trauma bay four, his head buried in his hands. The second my sneakers hit the linoleum, his head jerked up.

"Frey!"

He lunged off the bench, his arms wrapping around my shoulders in a fierce, clumsy grip. His whole body shook against mine, his breath ragged against my neck.

"She wasn't breathing," he whispered, his voice cracking into pieces. "I came home and she was on the floor by the stove, Frey. Her lips were blue. She couldn't pull in a single breath."

I held him tight, keeping my voice level because if I showed fear, he would completely fall apart. "I'm here. Take a breath. Where is she now?"

"They pushed me out into the hall," he said, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "They said only next of kin."

I pulled two crumpled dollar bills from my apron and pressed them into his palm. "Go down to the lobby and get a bottle of juice. Drink every drop, and don't come back until it's empty."

"Frey, I don't need—"

"Drink the juice, Jonah," I said, meeting his bloodshot eyes. "Now."

He hesitated, then turned down the hall.

The moment his footsteps faded, Doctor Hayes came through the double doors, pulling his surgical mask down to his neck. Sweat darkened his collar, his eyes bloodshot behind wire-rimmed glasses.

I moved forward to meet him. "Is she alive?"

"She's stable for now, Freya," Hayes said, leaning against the nurses' station. "We gave her steroids and hooked her to high-flow oxygen, but her lungs are giving out."

"She told me she used her inhaler yesterday morning," I said.

"She lied to you," Hayes replied bluntly. "The canister was bone dry. Her chronic lung disease has progressed to stage three, and rescue inhalers won't keep her alive anymore."

"What does she need?"

"Continuous oxygen therapy at home," Hayes said, looking at me with tired frankness. "A stationary concentrator for the house and portable tanks for when she gets on her feet. Her heart is working double-time just to pull in air. If she has another episode like this without continuous flow, she goes into full cardiac arrest."

"How much?"

The doctor didn't flinch, but his eyes carried that familiar pity I hated more than anything. "You don't have commercial insurance, Freya."

"Give me the number, Doctor Hayes."

"The concentrator lease is eight hundred a month. The tank refills, tubing, and servicing are four hundred. Her daily maintenance steroids run another six hundred. That’s eighteen hundred dollars every thirty days, payable upfront to the medical supplier."

Eighteen hundred dollars.

The number hit like a concrete wall.

My two jobs—scrubbing suburban houses by day and hauling beer pitchers until two in the morning—brought in nineteen hundred on a miraculous month. Our trailer lot rent was nine hundred. Basic groceries were four hundred.

The math simply didn't exist.

"Can we get on the county health subsidy?" I asked.

"The county waitlist is nine months long," Hayes answered, shaking his head. "Your mother doesn't have nine days, Freya. The equipment has to be at your trailer by Friday, or I can't legally discharge her without a social services hold."

"I'll get the money," I said.

Hayes studied my face for a second, then gave a brief nod. "Have the supplier contact my desk. I can hold her overnight for observation, but that's my limit."

He turned back toward the bays, leaving me alone in the hall.

Jonah walked up holding a crushed juice bottle, stopping two paces away. He read everything in my expression without asking a single question.

"I went to see Dexter before your shift," Jonah murmured, looking down at his worn shoes.

"What did you do?"

"He offered me thirty hours a week at the body shop," Jonah said, his voice rising in quiet, stubborn defense. "Ten bucks an hour under the table. I can drop my afternoon classes and catch the crosstown bus straight from campus."

I stepped up, grabbed the lapels of his denim jacket, and brought his eyes level with mine.

"You are not stepping foot in that garage," I said, clipping every word short. "You are fourteen years old. You are finishing high school, and you are going to college."

"Frey, we can't pay for her air!" he yelled, tears spilling over his lashes. "You're working twenty hours a day! You're going to drop dead on that tavern floor, and what happens to us then?"

"I said no," I answered, letting go of his jacket. "I am the head of this family. I handle the money. You stay in your classes, or I swear I'll take your baseball glove and throw it in the harbor."

Jonah wiped his cheeks with his sleeve, turning his back to me in angry silence.

We took a municipal cab back to the trailer park before sunrise, supporting Mom between us as we got her through the narrow door.

She looked frail wrapped in her faded cardigan, her curls matted flat against her temple. Every step she took dragged a dry, whistling scrape from her chest.

"Stop hovering over me," she rasped, swatting our hands away with trembling fingers as she sank onto the worn sofa. She pointed a shaking finger at me. "And don't you dare pay that hospital bill, Freya. They charge fifty dollars for an aspirin."

"You were unconscious on the kitchen floor, Mom," I said.

"It was just humid," she wheezed, her eyes fluttering shut with exhaustion. "My chest tightened up. A cup of hot tea and a few hours of sleep will fix it. We aren't spending another dime."

A sudden spasm cut her off.

Her shoulders curled forward as a deep, rattling cough tore through her. The sound was harsh, echoing against the thin walls of the trailer. She pressed both hands to her sternum, fighting for air that wouldn't reach her lungs, her knuckles turning bone white against her sweater.

Jonah froze, panic flashing across his face.

I crossed the room and wrapped both arms around her, holding her upright until the coughing fit broke, until she slumped against my side, drawing thin, whistling drafts of air.

She didn't argue after that. She let Jonah drape a blanket over her lap and closed her eyes in defeat.

We retreated to the bedroom ten minutes later.

Jonah climbed onto the bottom bunk, facing the wall and pulling his pillow over his head. I climbed the short ladder to the top, lying flat and staring up at the water stains across the ceiling panels.

My hand slid into the pocket of my jeans.

My fingers found the heavy card Marnie had given me.

Daphne Kensington.

Six grand a month, clean. Room and board provided on the grounds.

Eighteen hundred for the oxygen equipment and inhalers. Nine hundred for the lot lease. Three hundred for groceries and Jonah’s school supplies. There would still be three thousand left over every thirty days to build an actual safety net.

Marnie’s warning echoed in the back of my mind: four housekeepers had quit in six weeks. The man was volatile, reclusive, impossible.

I had survived my father’s temper before he walked out of our lives. I had survived drunken hands reaching for my waist behind the tavern bar. I had survived Griffin treating me like a disposable secret on a hotel mattress.

There was no monster in a mansion worse than poverty.

Through the thin partition, the coughing started again—a dry, suffocating rattle that scraped through the dark, each breath an agonizing fight against her own failing lungs.

Every remaining reservation vanished.

I pulled my cracked phone from my pocket, shielding the glare with my hand so the light wouldn't reach the lower bunk.

I opened a blank message, entered the direct number from the card, and typed out the text:

This is Freya Thorne. I accept the residential position.

I hit send.