Chapter 2
The page came before I could answer. A tone chirped over the hallway speakers and a nurse leaned out from the desk and called his name. The doctor held up one finger to me, not unkind, just waiting.
I stood there with the phone still recording. My arm had started to ache from holding it up. He looked at the screen, then at me, and nodded once.
"Keep it running," he said, quiet. "Don't cut anything."
Then he was gone, his white coat moving past me toward the nurses' station, the black tubing of his stethoscope bouncing once against his chest as he walked. The double doors at the end of the corridor swung and caught the light.
I didn't move right away. The fluorescent panels overhead buzzed the same way they had the whole afternoon. The hallway smelled like cleaner and coffee from the cart by the elevator. My other hand was still stuck in the pocket of my coral shirt, fingers balled up.
I lifted the phone closer. My thumb shook when I hit the square to stop.
For a second the screen just froze on my face. My eyes looked bigger than I remembered, and my bangs stuck to my forehead. Then the playback started on its own.
I heard myself first. That watery, thin voice I didn't recognize right away. "Doctor, please help my mom." Then, "Her treatment will cost 50,000 rupees. I don't have any money." My throat made a little click after that line.
Then his voice came in, steady. "Don't worry. Tell the viewers to like, follow, and share this video, then I will help your mother. Please like, follow, and share, please, please, please, please."
I played it again. I watched the tear on my own cheek not fall. I watched his mouth form the words about liking and sharing like it was part of a prescription. I didn't understand how a heart medicine could depend on strangers with phones, but there it was, saved in my photos with a little red dot at the top. I pressed the upload arrow because he'd told me to, and because my mom was two doors down behind a curtain.
The hospital WiFi was free if you tapped "Guest." It asked for an email I didn't have, so I typed my mom's. The wheel spun. Uploading.
I walked back toward her room with the phone flat in my palm like a tray I couldn't spill. The waiting area outside Room 214 was three plastic chairs and a vending machine that hummed. A woman sat there with a sleeping toddler across her lap. She'd seen me talking to the doctor earlier.
She glanced at my screen as I passed. "Honey, was that your mom's doctor?" she asked.
I nodded. The video had finished uploading. It sat there on a blank profile I'd made that morning, titled only with the date. Three views already, though I hadn't sent it to anyone.
"Can I see?" she said, adjusting the toddler's blanket.
I held the phone out. She tapped play, and my voice filled that little corner again. Her face tightened when the part about 50,000 rupees came on. She didn't look away.
"Oh, sweetheart," she whispered. Not to me, but to the screen.
She stood and carried my phone to the clerk's window ten feet away. The clerk was a man in his thirties with a badge that said PATIENT SERVICES, typing with two fingers.
"Look at this," the waiting room mother said, turning my phone to him. "This little boy had to beg for a share to get treatment."
The clerk watched, his mouth set in a line. He listened all the way to the pleases at the end, then slid the phone back toward her, not touching it much.
"You should be careful with that," he said, quiet enough that I had to step closer to hear. He looked at me, then back at her. "Hospital policy doesn't let doctors make deals on camera. If administration sees this, they could pull the video. Or worse, flag the account."
"Flag it for what?" she asked. "He's asking for help."
"For soliciting. For using hospital property to fundraise without approval," he said, and tapped his keyboard like he wanted to be busy again. "I'm just saying. I've seen them take these down. Don't get his hopes up before billing clears it."
The woman's cheeks got pink. She handed the phone back to me. Her hand was warm. "It's still up right now," she said to me, softer. "That's what matters, right? Let people see it."
I went to my mom's room. She was asleep with the curtain half-drawn. The afternoon light came through the blinds in stripes across her blanket. An IV stand ticked next to her bed. Her purse sat empty on the chair, unzipped. I pulled that chair right up to the bed rail and sat, phone on my knee.
It buzzed once. Then again.
A heart icon popped up. Then another. The number under it went from 3 to 11 to 18 while I watched. Someone had commented: "Praying for your mom sweetie share done." Someone else wrote "Shared."
Each like made a little red pulse. I stared at the count like it was the monitor next to my mom's bed, each tick keeping time. Eighteen people I didn't know now knew my voice cracking over that number. Eighteen people had to tap for the doctor to keep his word.
May you like
My mom breathed out in her sleep and turned her head. I quickly turned the brightness down. I didn't want her to wake and see what I'd done.
I sat there with my back against the cool wall, the hallway noise muffled through the door, watching the numbers climb slow and uneven. The doctor hadn't come back yet. The video was still live. And for the first time since that morning, I wasn't the only one waiting.
