“Yes, I do.”
For the next forty-eight hours, Archie lived inside the nightmare he had created.
Skyla didn’t leave.
She barely slept.
She worked her diner shifts.
Went to class.
And spent every free minute trying to save a man who wasn’t dying.
His phone buzzed constantly.
I found an oncology advocacy group in Cleveland.
They offer bridge grants.
I need your patient number.
Then:
Johns Hopkins has a navigator who reviews rare cases.
Can you send the pathology report?
Then:
There’s a nonprofit that helps finance experimental care.
Archie, answer me.
Each message made him feel worse.
So he lied again.
And again.
The doctor is traveling.
The paperwork isn’t ready.
I’m too tired.
The grant won’t work.
Eventually he snapped at her.
“Stop pushing me.”
She went silent.
“You’re suffocating me.”
Even through the phone, he could hear the hurt.
But the next morning, she called again.
