The heat radiating from Mina’s small body felt less like a fever and more like a warning. It burned against my palm, a dry, searing fire that made the damp chill of our Queens apartment feel even more oppressive. Outside, the October rain lashed against the single-pane window, the sound like gravel being thrown against the glass. Inside, the air was stale, smelling of old radiator dust and my own rising panic.
I checked the thermometer again. 103.2°F. The numbers glowed red in the semi-darkness, mocking me.
“Mommy,” Mina whimpered, her voice thin and reedy. She thrashed against the tangled sheets, her usually bright eyes glassy and unfocused.
“I know, baby. I know it hurts.” I smoothed hair damp with sweat off her forehead. My hands were shaking. I moved to the bathroom, tearing open the medicine cabinet. Empty. Just a sticky ring where the children’s Tylenol used to be. We had used the last drop three days ago for a teething ache.
I ran back to the bedroom, grabbing my phone. My fingers slipped on the screen as I dialed Eric. It rang four times. Five.
“What?” His voice was a bark, sharp and impatient.
“Eric, you need to come home.” I tried to keep the hysteria from clawing its way up my throat. “Mina is burning up. It’s over 103. The cabinet is empty. I need you to bring medicine. Maybe we need the ER.”
Through the receiver, I heard the clink of silverware against china and the low murmur of jazz. He wasn’t at the office.
“Cassandra, are you serious right now?” He sighed, a long, exaggerated exhale that I could practically see. “I’m in the middle of a client dinner. A very important one. I can’t just leave because you’re being hysterical again.”
“I’m not being hysterical! She’s boiling, Eric! I don’t have any cash for the pharmacy, and the credit card was declined at the grocery store yesterday.”
“God, you are exhausting,” he snapped. The background noise swelled—laughter, a woman’s voice, bright and melodic. “Figure it out. You’re the mother, aren’t you?”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone, the silence of the room rushing back in to crush me. A second later, a notification pinged. Venmo.
*Eric Dixon sent you $20.00.*
*Caption: Stop bothering me.*
Twenty dollars. That wouldn’t even cover the Uber to the hospital, let alone the copay or the prescription. Rage, hot and sudden, flared in my chest, warring with the terror. I turned to pace the small living room, needing to move, needing to scream.
My hip caught the edge of the coffee table, knocking the family iPad onto the floor. It landed face up, the screen waking from the impact.
*Banking Alert: Transfer Successful.*
*Amount: -$20,000.00*
*Recipient: Lenora Burke.*
The breath left my lungs as if I’d been punched. I froze, staring at the glowing rectangle. I knew the passcode—it was Mina’s birthday. My fingers moved automatically, unlocking the device. The banking app was open, but it was the iMessage banner at the top that drew my eye.
*Eric: Done. The funds should be there. Go get that Birkin, babe. You deserve it.*
*Lenora: You’re amazing. What about the wifey? Won’t she notice?*
*Eric: Please. She’s too busy clipping coupons. She budgets like a peasant. It’s pathetic to watch.*
A Birkin. Twenty thousand dollars for a handbag.
I looked at the Venmo notification again. Twenty dollars for his daughter’s life.
The room spun. The walls of the cramped apartment seemed to tilt inward. Three years. I had given up my inheritance, my name, my entire world for this man. I had learned to cook hamburger helper and sew patches into Mina’s leggings because I thought we were building something real. I thought we were struggling together.
A choked, gurgling sound from the bedroom shattered the trance.
I sprinted back. Mina was rigid. Her back arched off the mattress, her eyes rolled back into her head, showing only the whites. Her limbs jerked in a terrifying, rhythmic spasm.
“Mina!” I screamed, grabbing her, turning her onto her side. She was convulsing. A febrile seizure.
Panic, absolute and primal, flooded my veins. I couldn't wait for an ambulance that might take twenty minutes in this storm. I couldn't walk into an ER and be turned away or made to wait for hours because I looked like a woman with twenty dollars to her name.
I looked at my daughter, her small body seizing in my arms, and then I looked at the phone.
My pride had kept me away for three years. My pride had told me I could make it work, that I didn't need the Henderson money to be happy. But pride was a luxury I could no longer afford. Eric had spent our safety on leather and stitching.
I dialed the number. I remembered it better than my own social security number.
It rang once. Twice.
“Cassandra?”
The voice was gruff, deep, and instantly familiar. It carried the weight of boardrooms and skyscrapers, yet there was a tremor in it I had never heard before.
Tears finally spilled over, hot and fast, mixing with the sweat on Mina’s cheek as I pulled her close to my chest.
“Daddy,” I whispered, my voice breaking into a thousand jagged pieces. “I need help. Mina is dying.”
