My father answered on the third ring, his voice cheerful and distracted. “Hey, kiddo. What’s going on?”
I could hear something metallic in the background – tools, maybe, or the television turned to one of those home improvement shows my mother loved. Normal sounds from a normal evening in a normal house where legs worked and futures weren’t hanging in the balance.
“Dad, I got hurt,” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the panic crawling up my throat. “It’s bad.”
The metallic sounds stopped. “Hurt how?”
I explained everything in clinical terms – the injury, the MRI results, the surgeon’s timeline, the cost. I told him I’d pay it back with interest. I told him I just needed help now, this once, for something that would determine whether I’d walk normally for the rest of my life.
