My throat closed. “And the cost?”
He glanced at Elena, then at me. “The surgery itself runs close to ninety‑four thousand dollars, not counting post‑op ICU care. Our charity fund can cover part, but not the whole bill.”
Elena’s eyes flickered to the doorway, then back to the chart. She swallowed, “I have a trust—my father’s estate set up a discretionary fund for medical emergencies. It’s still active.”
“Your father?” I asked, the name a distant echo.
She nodded, voice steadier. “He passed three years ago. The trust was meant for his grandchildren, but there’s a clause that allows direct use for life‑saving procedures for any descendant of the Brooks line.”
I felt a surge of hope, knotted with disbelief. “And Lucy qualifies?”
Elena’s lips trembled into a thin smile. “She’s a Brooks.”
We exchanged a look, the gravity of the moment settling like a low hum in the hallway.
