Chapter 6
Phone rang again in hospital room late afternoon. Mom slept propped against pillows, IV line taped to her hand, coral shirt folded on chair beside her bed. I stared at cracked screen where view count still climbed — 52,000, then 53,000 — numbers ticked while hospital clock ticked louder. Fluorescent lights buzzed same as corridor where doctor made viral bargain. Stethoscope still hung around his neck when he passed doorway earlier, gave small nod, didn't speak.
Nurse handed me corded handset.
“Boy who made video?” voice asked. Woman, crisp, downtown accent. “This is Elise from Harper Regional Foundation. We saw local news page share.”
I swallowed. Past tense narration stuck in throat. I said yes.
She didn't waste pause. Foundation tower downtown watched video overnight. Board liked story but needed proof of reach. Offer came fast, conditional.
“Elise continued: foundation will provide matching grant up to 50,000 rupees equivalent if video hits 100,000 shares. Not views. Shares.”
I gripped handset tighter. Knuckles went white.
“Catch exists,” she said. “You and mom attend annual gala Saturday night, retell story on stage, live audience, donors present. We film, we post. Authenticity drives shares.”
I looked at mom. Chest rose shallow under blanket. She hated public pity. Last year she skipped church potluck rather than explain why she quit second job. Now stranger wanted her illness under ballroom lights.
I asked what happens if we say no.
“Then offer expires,” Elise said. “We have dozen other families.”
Line went quiet except for fluorescent buzz. I heard mom breathing, hallway cart squeaking outside, my own breath too fast.
I whispered, “Can I think?”
“You have until 8 pm tonight,” Elise said. “Doctor already endorsed idea. He called us this morning.”
That hit hard. Doctor used stethoscope promise, then pushed foundation without telling me. I felt betrayal and relief mixed.
I hung up. Shame burned. I wanted to protect mom from stage, but wanted her treatment more.
Second scene built in waiting room. Doctor found me by vending machines. White coat over blue scrubs, stethoscope centered on chest, silver chestpiece caught light.
He crouched to my eye level. Slow blink before speaking.
“You got call,” he said.
I nodded. Eyes watered again, same glistening as tight close-up on last shot.
He said, “I know gala feels heavy. Foundation needs faces, not just numbers. Hospital billing office pressured me. I used video because charity needs traction. Without leverage, nothing moves.”
I asked why he didn't warn me.
“Feared you'd say no before hearing offer,” he said. “Not cruel intention. Tried to buy time.”
I stared at faded coral shirt pocket, at his stethoscope, at blurred corridor behind him. Same shallow depth of field, same warm color temperature, but now corridor felt smaller.
He added, “Mom decides. Not me. Not foundation.”
Third scene: I woke mom gently. Her eyes opened gray and tired. I told her about call, about 100k shares, about stage.
She listened without interrupting. Micro-expression flickered — pride, fear, exhaustion. Small pause before speaking.
“You want me up there?” she asked, voice thin.
I said, “I want you alive.” Short sentence. Plea carried weight.
She touched my hair, same bangs as video. “You were brave in hallway. Don’t need to be brave again for strangers.”
I said, “But shares climb only if we show up. Few thousand dollars raised so far. Gap remains huge. Troll comments already started under video, calling it begging.”
She closed eyes. Breathing slowed. Tears slipped without sound. She whispered, “I never wanted you to beg.”
I pressed lips together, same as cliffhanger shot, holding back tears.
Fourth scene: charity office downtown glowed through phone again at 7:46 pm. Elise answered on first ring.
I stood in hospital room, mom propped up listening, doctor leaning against doorway, stethoscope still around neck, arms crossed but calm.
Elise asked for decision.
I looked at mom. Mom gave tiny nod, almost invisible. Not permission born from excitement — permission born from surrender.
I spoke into handset. Voice cracked but held.
“We will come to gala,” I said. “We will tell story on stage.”
Elise exhaled. “Good. We set 100k share threshold tonight. Foundation posts boost tomorrow. Be ready 6 pm Saturday, downtown tower, ballroom. Wear that coral shirt. Camera loves it.”
May you like
Call ended. View count on cracked screen showed 58,000. Share count showed 41,000. New target: 100,000 shares.
Doctor pushed off doorway, gave slow nod. Mom squeezed my hand. IV line tugged. Outside, fluorescent lights hummed unchanged, but now hallway led to tower.
