Chapter 2 - The St. Jude Memorial TrapThe waiting room at St. Jude Memorial Hospital smelled like bleach, old carpet, and quiet desperation. Mina sat in a plastic chair with a cracked armrest, clutching a manila folder stuffed with insurance denial letters.
“Jenkins, Toby?”
Mina sprang up, hurrying through the swinging double doors into consultation room four.
Dr. Vance, a tired-looking man with silver-rimmed glasses, was studying Toby’s chart. Toby sat on the exam table, his skin much too pale, giving her a weak, lopsided grin.
“Hey, sis,” Toby murmured.
“Hey, kiddo. How’s the arm?”
“Sore. The machine felt extra aggressive today.”
Dr. Vance cleared his throat, setting the tablet down. His expression was the one Mina had learned to dread—polite, clinical, and final.
“Mina, we need to talk about the balance on the specialized filtration substrates. The hospital board has flagged the account again. Without the upfront deposit of four thousand dollars by Friday, we’re going to have to transition Toby to a generalized outpatient schedule. Which... given his vascular fragility... is not recommended.”
Mina felt the room tilt. Four thousand dollars. In three days.
“Dr. Vance, please,” Mina said, her voice dropping into that tight, controlled register she used when she was seconds away from breaking. “We made the payment arrangement last month. I can pull another five hundred together by—”
“Mina, my hands are tied,” the doctor said softly, looking away. “It’s corporate policy.”
As she walked out of the hospital twenty minutes later, clutching Toby’s hand-me-down sweater, the cold Chicago wind hit her like a physical blow. She stood on the concrete steps, staring at the swirling autumn leaves.
Forty-three dollars.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, expecting a text from her landlord. Instead, it was an unknown number with a local Chicago area code.
Text: Check the lining of your apron pocket.
May you like
Mina froze. She shoved her hand into the pocket of the stained apron she had shoved into her canvas bag that morning. Her fingers brushed against something crisp and rectangular.
She pulled it out. It was a brown manila envelope, sealed with red wax bearing the impression of a roaring lion.
