My parents called at 1 A.M. screaming, “Wire $20,000—your brother’s in the ER!” I asked one question… and they dodged it. So I said, “Call your favorite daughter,” hung up, and went back to sleep. The next morning… police were at my door.

“Diana, oh my goodness, honey.”

I pushed myself upright in bed so quickly that the blankets twisted around my legs.

“Are you okay?” I asked quickly. “What happened?”

“Twenty thousand dollars,” she gasped as if the number itself had caused the emergency. “We need twenty thousand right now.”

My heart began pounding.

“For what?” I asked. “Mom, tell me what happened.”

“Your brother Travis,” she cried. “He is in the emergency room and they will not treat him unless we pay.”

“What hospital?” I asked immediately. “What happened to him?”

There was a pause that lasted less than a second, but something about it felt wrong. It reminded me of hearing a wrong note inside a familiar song.

Then another voice replaced hers.

It was my father Leonard speaking in a clipped and commanding tone that he usually used when he expected obedience rather than discussion.

“Stop asking questions,” he said. “Just send the money. If you do not help him then he will stay in pain all night.”

He spoke as if I personally controlled the hospital.

I looked at the clock glowing on the bedside table. It read one oh three in the morning. The house around me was silent except for the sound of my own pulse beating in my ears.