Page 44 of Rhythm and Rapture

"Breathe, Sabina. In for four, hold for four, out for four."

For the next three days, despite Grimoire's brutal tour schedule, Kade called every few hours. When he couldn't, his bandmates stepped in.

Day Two

"Hey, little rockstar!" Jax's face filled my phone screen as I held it up for Kael, who'd finally woken up enough to focus. "Want to see a magic trick?"

Kael's eyes—Maria's eyes—lit up despite the exhaustion. For twenty minutes, Grimoire's drummer made coins disappear andcards change colors, all while Luka provided sound effects on his bass in the background.

"Is that a dragon on your guitar?" Kael whispered, pointing at the screen.

"Good eye, buddy!" Luka turned his bass to show off the inlay. "Dragons are the coolest, right?"

Remy popped into frame, his purple hair making Kael giggle. "Not as cool as dinosaurs though. I heard you have dinosaur pajamas?"

Even Rose, their girlfriend who usually stayed off camera, joined in. "Kael, what color should I paint my nails? I need expert advice."

"Blue!" Kael said immediately. "Like... like the sky."

"Blue it is, handsome."

Day Three

I make calls. Run calculations. My TA salary: $2,400/month. Savings: $1,837. Credit limit: $5,000. The math doesn't work no matter how many times I run it.

The financial aid office explains I'm in the gap—too much income for emergency grants, not enough for actual emergencies. Cancer charities have wait lists measured in weeks Kael doesn't have, or requirements I somehow don't meet. Single parent? Check. Student? Check. Child with life-threatening illness? Check. But there's always some bureaucratic reason why we don't qualify—income limits that don't account for trust funds you can't touch, age requirements that assume cancer only strikes children with older parents, geographic restrictions, diagnosis timelines, forms that need signatures from people who don't exist.

I never did find out what magic combination of poverty and tragedy would have made us eligible. Apparently being a twenty-year-old student trying to save her three-year-old's lifeisn't quite desperate enough for the system designed to help desperate people.

By day three, I've filled out seventeen applications, made forty-three phone calls, and been rejected by every organization designed to help families exactly like mine.

That evening, I can't stand the cheerful walls anymore. I escape to the family lounge—a beige purgatory with uncomfortable chairs and a coffee maker that hasn't been cleaned since it was first purchased, I'm sure of it.

Dr. Martinez finds me there, looking even more worn than when he'd delivered the diagnosis. Three days of watching him check on Kael between his rounds, three days of his gentle updates and careful optimism, and I can see this case is weighing on him too. "Sabina? I was hoping to find you here. I wanted to check on you both before I headed home."

"He's sleeping," I manage, my voice hoarse from crying and phone calls.

Dr. Martinez sits across from me, his kind eyes taking in my disheveled state. "Have you had any luck with the financial assistance programs?"

I shake my head, unable to form words.

"I've been making some calls of my own," he says gently. "There might be a research grant we could apply Kael's case to, but..." He pauses, and I know what's coming. "It would take at least two weeks for approval. And given the tumor's location..."

"He doesn't have two weeks." My voice is flat, emotionless. We both know the reality.

"I'm so sorry, Sabina. If I had the money myself..." He trails off, both of us knowing that professors don't make enough to casually hand out $47,000. "I'll keep trying. And I'll make sure Kael has the best care possible while we figure this out."

After he leaves, I sit alone as the hospital shifts into its nighttime rhythm. The family lounge empties out—otherparents heading home or to bedsides. The halls grow quieter, punctuated only by the squeak of night shift shoes and the distant beeping of monitors.

The phone weighs a thousand pounds in my hand. I've already been through every other option—loans denied, inheritance tied up in trust, no family left to call. Every door slammed shut except this one, and I hate myself for even considering walking through it.

I stare at my phone. Kade's contact photo—both of us in high school, young and stupid and unaware that life could implode so completely.

The band has just signed with Artisan Records. Grimoire is living their dream—sold-out venues, screaming fans, the breakthrough they've worked years for. His advance was well earned, and I know more than anyone how much that all meant to Kade. Financial security.

And here I am, about to call him. The clock on the wall reads 11:47 PM, which means it's nearly 2 AM on the East Coast where Grimoire's tour has taken them. I shouldn't call this late. Shouldn't wake him before a show. Shouldn't beg for money that represents years of struggle finally paying off.

Forty-seven thousand dollars.The number makes me physically ill.

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