Chapter 10
Foundation tower smelled like fresh carpet and cold air conditioning. Dressing suite behind ballroom had no windows. Bright bulbs around mirror hummed. Borrowed blazer hung off my shoulders. Sleeves covered my wrists. Underneath I still wore coral t-shirt with chest pocket. Fabric itched at collar. Mom sat on low couch. She smoothed blazer hem with her hand. Her eyes stayed tired but steady.
Coordinator knocked once then came in without waiting. She carried clipboard and printed script. Smiled fast. Said donors waited in ballroom. Said my video got us this room.
She laid script on makeup counter in front of me. Paper had big letters. My lines highlighted yellow.
"You'll say mom collapsed at grocery store," she said. "You'll say ambulance took forty minutes. You'll say you slept on hospital floor three nights."
I didn't move. Mom shifted behind me.
"That didn't happen that way," Mom said. Quiet voice.
Coordinator kept smiling. "Donors need drama," she said. "Truth is good. Bigger truth raises more money. Fifty thousand rupees is big number. Story must match number."
She tapped script. "Just add these details. Pause here. Cry here. Works every time."
I looked at yellow lines. Words weren't mine. Words said I begged doctor in parking lot. Words said doctor ignored me first. None of that happened. Corridor had white ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights. Doctor wore white coat over blue scrubs and black stethoscope with silver chestpiece. He listened. He said don't worry. He said ask viewers to like, follow, share. Those were real words.
My throat felt tight. Blazer felt heavier.
"I can't say that," I said.
Coordinator frowned. "You want help for mom or not?" she said. "This gala paid for catering, lights, livestream. Donors want payoff."
Mom stood. Put hand on my shoulder. "We said we'd tell truth," she said. "No exaggeration. That was boundary."
Coordinator sighed. "Boundary doesn't pay bills," she said. She checked watch. "Doctor arrives in five. You have five to decide."
Door opened. Doctor came in. Same white coat over blue scrubs. Same black stethoscope with silver chestpiece around neck. No change. He looked out of place against gold mirror and velvet chairs. He nodded to me first, then to Mom.
Coordinator held out script to him. "Doctor, your intro is page two," she said. "Says you almost turned boy away but changed mind. Powerful arc."
Doctor didn't take paper. He looked at it, then at me.
"I won't say that," he said.
Coordinator's smile thinned. "This is approved language," she said.
Doctor shook head. "Corridor was real," he said. "Boy asked for help. I said tell viewers to like, follow, share, then I will help mother. I said that. Not this script. I wear same coat I wore then. I won't wear different story."
Room went quiet. Air conditioner hummed louder.
Coordinator pressed. "Donors expect polished story," she said. "Unscripted risks silence."
Doctor stepped closer to counter. Moved script aside. Looked at me in mirror. My coral t-shirt showed at collar under blazer. His stethoscope caught light.
"What do you want to say?" he asked me.
My hands shook. I remembered fluorescent lights in hospital corridor. Remembered watery eyes and tear on left cheek. Remembered holding back tears.
"Only real lines," I said. "Doctor, please help my mom. Her treatment will cost 50,000 rupees. I don't have any money. That's what I said. That's what I'll say."
Coordinator inhaled sharp. "That's thirty seconds," she said. "We need three minutes."
"Then we wait three minutes," Doctor said. He looked at coordinator. "Let donors hear silence if needed. Silence honest."
Mom squeezed my shoulder. "Good," she whispered.
Coordinator stared at us. Then checked clipboard. Knocked pen against it. "Fine," she said. "Unscripted. But if room goes cold, don't blame me." She gathered script. Tore top sheet off. Left second copy on counter in case we changed mind. Walked to door. "Two minutes to doors," she said. Left door open behind her.
Ballroom noise leaked in. Low chatter, clinking glasses, someone testing microphone. Hallway outside had warm light and carpet runner leading to double doors.
Doctor adjusted stethoscope around neck. Centered chestpiece. Looked at me.
"Ready?" he asked.
I zipped blazer halfway. Left coral t-shirt visible. Nodded.
Mom stood between us. Took my hand. Took Doctor's sleeve lightly.
May you like
"We walk together," she said.
We walked toward ballroom doors, unscripted. Stethoscope swung slight against Doctor's coat. Coral shirt showed at my neck. Doors waited ahead, still closed.
