Chapter 4
The next morning, I took Dad to the clinic.
The doctor was a kind woman who'd known our family for years.
She looked at the scans. Shook her head.
"It's early," she said. "But we need to start treatment soon. Every week matters."
"How much?" I asked.
She told me the number.
My stomach dropped.
I didn't have that kind of money.
I'd saved up a little from my prison job. Barely enough for groceries for a month.
"I'll find it," I said.
She looked at me. Knew my record. Knew where I'd been.
"Ryan," she said gently. "There are programs. Charities. Payment plans. You don't have to do this alone. And you don't have to do it the wrong way."
I nodded.
But I knew how hard it would be.
An ex-con. No references. No recent work history.
Who would hire me?
I spent the next three days filling out applications.
Fast food. Construction. Warehouses.
Everywhere I went, the same thing happened.
They'd look at my application. See the felony box checked.
And the smiles would fade.
May you like
"We'll call you," they'd say.
They never did.
