Relief flooded the nurse’s face as she gestured hurriedly for them to follow. Lila scrambled to her feet and followed him closely, gripping the sleeve of his jacket as though afraid he might vanish.
They walked through corridors washed in fluorescent light, past curtained rooms and the constant beeping of machines that marked the thin line between life and loss. Lila spoke softly as they walked, telling him how her mother worked from home sewing clothes for neighbors, how they lived in a small apartment where the ceiling leaked when it rained, and how she had cleaned blood from the pharmacy floor with her dress when her mother collapsed.
Lucas listened in silence, each word sinking deeper than he expected. When they reached the emergency ward, a red light glowed above one of the doors.
“That is her room,” Lila said, her voice barely audible.
A doctor approached, introducing himself and explaining the situation in clinical terms that did nothing to soften the reality. Fiona Benton was in critical condition. There was internal bleeding. The baby was in distress. Surgery was needed immediately.
Lucas did not hesitate. “I will cover everything,” he said. “Whatever it takes.”