Then Daniel started noticing the house.
There was almost no furniture. A couch with a blanket thrown over the torn cushions. One kitchen table with three mismatched chairs. A little refrigerator in the corner, humming too loud.
The kitchen cabinets were open. Most of them were nearly empty. A box of saltines. Two cans of soup. A jar of peanut butter.
There was a space heater in the corner, unplugged. A big crack ran across its front grille. The house was cold. Not chilly. Cold. He could see his own breath, faintly, when he exhaled.
And on the kitchen table, there was a stack of envelopes.
Thick. Held together with a rubber band. A few of them were pink.
Daniel had been in business long enough to know what pink envelopes meant.
He stood up and walked over and picked up the stack.
“What are these?”
Emily moved fast. She reached for them.
“Nothing. Give me those.”
“Emily.”
She stopped with her hand in the air.
“They’re Noah’s medical bills,” she said finally.
Daniel pulled the rubber band off.
The first one was from the University of Kentucky’s children’s hospital in Lexington. A balance of thirty-one thousand dollars, past due.
The second was from a physical therapy clinic in Hazard. Eight thousand.
The third was from a collection agency in Ohio. FINAL NOTICE, in red letters across the top. Fourteen thousand dollars for a medical transport.
There was an orthopedic supply company. An orthotics clinic. A pharmacy. A pediatric neurologist in Louisville. A letter from her health insurance company denying coverage for a power wheelchair as “not medically necessary.”
A letter from Kentucky Medicaid saying her income was eighty-two dollars a month too high to qualify for a waiver program.
He added it up in his head without even trying. Forty years in finance does that to you.
A hundred and sixty-seven thousand dollars.
His face went pale.
“This much?”
Emily nodded. She wouldn’t look at him.
“He’s needed treatment for years. Since he was a baby.”
“What kind of treatment? What’s wrong with him?”
“Cerebral palsy,” Emily said quietly. “Spastic diplegia. The muscles in his legs are tight. All the time. Like they’re always cramping. It makes walking almost impossible. He gets sick a lot, too. His lungs. Pneumonia twice last winter.”
“Why didn’t you ask me for help?”
She stared at him like he’d said something insane.
“You wouldn’t have helped.”
Daniel looked at her in total disbelief.
“Emily. I would have.”
Her voice cracked.
“You never even came looking for us, Daniel.”
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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