She refused to accept that nothing could be done.
“There’s always someone else we can ask,” she insisted.
Yet I continued rejecting every suggestion.
On the second evening, she arrived with a notebook filled with questions.
“Archie, I need you to be straight with me.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“About what?”
“Have you actually spoken to anyone about financial assistance?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I don’t remember every name.”
She studied my face.
“You’re scaring me.”
I turned away.
“Fine. I’ll find another way.”
She shut her notebook and stood.
“But if you’re not going to let me help you make calls, I need a little time to see what I can find on my own.”
The following morning, a message arrived that marked the beginning of her five-day disappearance.
SKYLA: I’m leaving for five days. Don’t call me.
I immediately called.
She didn’t answer.
I texted her.
Where are you going?
No response.
For two days, she’d acted determined to help me.
Now she’d vanished.
My father’s warnings returned.
I imagined her deciding that a seriously ill boyfriend without money wasn’t worth the burden.
On the second day, I tried calling again.
Straight to voicemail.
I nearly contacted my friends to admit they’d been right.
But something held me back.
Perhaps embarrassment.
Or perhaps I couldn’t bear hearing them congratulate themselves.
On the third day, I noticed a note Skyla had attached to my refrigerator weeks earlier.
EAT BREAKFAST BEFORE YOUR MEETING. COFFEE IS NOT BREAKFAST.
Underneath, she’d drawn a ridiculously bad little egg.
I stood staring at it.
That small gesture didn’t match the selfish woman I’d imagined.
Neither did the evenings she’d spent helping me practice presentations.
Or the afternoon she’d driven across town simply because I’d mentioned feeling lonely.
None of those gestures had required much money.
Yet I had barely appreciated them.
By the fourth day, I felt no satisfaction.
Instead, I checked my phone hourly.
I didn’t know where Skyla was.
But I also recognized that demanding an explanation from her was hypocritical when I’d invented something so serious.
The realization was uncomfortable, and I kept trying to ignore it.
Five evenings after her message, I was sitting in my living room when a key turned in the front door.
Skyla entered, looking utterly exhausted.
Her hair was tied back carelessly, her jacket wrinkled, and a small wooden box rested beneath her arm.
“Where have you been?” I demanded.
She placed the box on the coffee table.
“Please don’t start.”
“You disappeared for five days!”
“I know.”
“I called you!”
“I asked you not to.”
“Do you have any idea what I thought?”
She met my eyes.
“I thought you might be frightened.”
I nearly laughed.
I’d spent five days silently accusing her of abandoning me.
Skyla opened the wooden box.
I recognized it immediately.
It had belonged to her grandmother.
Its lid was scratched, and someone had glued a damaged corner back together.
Inside, Skyla preserved her grandmother’s handwritten recipes.
She’d once described it as the one possession she’d never willingly surrender.
Now the recipe cards had been shifted aside.
Beneath them lay a thick stack of papers.
“What is all this?” I asked.
“Options.”
She settled onto the couch.
“Remember my grandmother’s friend Meryl? The woman who used to volunteer with patients?”
I nodded.
“Meryl went through a serious illness years ago. Grandma helped her get to appointments. I remembered she’d worked with a patient-support group afterward.”
Skyla pulled out a handwritten list.
“I called her. She said she could help me understand what questions we needed to ask.”
“You went to see her?”
“She lives a few hours away. I had a break from classes, and my manager approved the time off.”
She rubbed her tired eyes.
“I stayed with her. She helped me speak to a patient navigator and find organizations that might know about treatment assistance. I kept my phone off because I knew if you called, I’d spend the whole time worrying instead of getting anything done.”
I stared at the documents.
They contained phone numbers, eligibility requirements, and information about insurance appeals.
Nothing guaranteed a solution.
But every page demonstrated how seriously she’d believed my story.
“Meryl said we need the actual diagnosis and treatment estimate before anyone can tell us what’s available,” Skyla continued.
She looked directly at me.
“I know you don’t want to talk about the medical details. But we can’t keep guessing.”
I lifted the first sheet.
Her handwriting covered the margins.
ASK ABOUT SECOND OPINION.
CHECK WHETHER COST INCLUDES FOLLOW-UP CARE.
FIND OUT WHAT INSURANCE HAS DENIED IN WRITING.