Page 46 of Rhythm and Rapture

I promise. We hang up, and I'm left with nothing but fluorescent lights and the echo of his words.

I call the billing department with shaking fingers. Within twenty minutes, the payment is processing. Within thirty, the surgery is scheduled. Within forty-five, Dr. Krishnamurthy herself calls to confirm—7 AM Thursday. Within one hour, my son has a chance.

The timeline feels both endless and instant. One hour to go from certain death to possible life. One hour for Kade's tour money to become Kael's future.

I walk back to his room on unsteady legs. He's asleep under the thin hospital blanket, his mouth slightly open, tiny fists curled around the bed rails like he's holding on tight even in dreams. For the first time since we arrived, I let myself really look at him—the bruised circles under both eyes now, the way the tape pulls at his perfect baby cheek, the IV anchored to his tiny hand with more tape than seems necessary for someone so small.

I sit down, brush a curl from his forehead, and start telling him stories about brave T-Rexes who protect their families. My voice barely registers above the monitor beeps, hoarse from crying, but I tell them anyway. Mr. Chompers goes on adventures, saves other dinosaurs, roars so loud he scares away anything that might hurt the ones he loves.

When I finish, I text Kade: "Surgery scheduled for Thursday. Thank you, from both of us."

He replies in seconds: "Anytime, Sab. Tell Kael the whole band says hi. And check your email—Jax sent dinosaur coloring pages he designed just for him."

There's a soft knock before Rachyl shoulders the door open, juggling two coffee cups and a grease-stained In-N-Out bag. This trust fund princess from my cohort who was supposed to just drop off assignments seven hours ago. Who's spent the afternoon reading "Green Eggs and Ham" in increasingly ridiculous voices just to make Kael giggle through his exhaustion.

"Figured you haven't eaten since..." She pauses, calculating. "Actually, when did you last eat?"

I can't remember. Yesterday? This morning? Time moves differently in hospitals.

She doesn't wait for an answer, just starts unpacking the bag with ruthless efficiency. "Two animal style burgers, extra spread. Fries that are probably cold but still therapeutic. And..." She produces a vanilla milkshake with the gravitas of someone presenting a Nobel Prize. "Because everything sucks less with milkshakes."

"Rachyl, you didn't have to?—"

"Shut up and eat." She sits beside me, somehow graceful even in the torture device hospitals call chairs. Her manicure is perfect—expensive nude polish that probably costs more than my weekly groceries—but she doesn't hesitate to grab my hand when it starts shaking again.

"The surgery's scheduled," I tell her, voice cracking. "Thursday morning."

"Good." She squeezes my hand. "That's good."

"I hate this." The words tumble out between bites of burger I can barely taste. "I hate needing help. I hate that love isn't enough. I hate that I had to call Kade and take money he earned, money the band needs?—"

"But you did it anyway." Rachyl's voice is quiet but firm. "You swallowed your pride and accepted help because you love Kael more than you hate needing it. That's what real strength looks like."

She opens her designer bag and pulls out a tube of hand cream. "Your hands are destroyed from the hospital soap," she says, matter-of-fact, and starts rubbing expensive lotion into my cracked knuckles like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Why are you here?" I ask suddenly. "You barely know us. You have better things to do than sit in a pediatric oncology ward with?—"

"My little sister had leukemia." The words come out simply, like she's mentioning the weather. "She was four. I was fifteen. Spent six months basically living at CHLA while my parents worked extra just to avoid the depressingly cheerful hospital ward."

I stare at her—perfect Rachyl with her trust fund and designer everything, suddenly making sense.

"She's okay now. Twelve years in remission, currently at Yale being brilliant." She caps the hand cream. "But I remember the nights. The awful fucking hospital chairs. The way time stops existing. How desperately you need someone to just... be there. Not fix anything, just be there."

"Rachyl—"

"So shut up and let me be here. Eat your burger. When you're ready, we'll go over your assignments so you don't fall behind. And tonight, when visiting hours end, you're coming home with me."

"I can't leave him?—"

"You can for eight hours. You need sleep and a shower and a bed that isn't vinyl. Kael needs you functional, not martyred." She pulls out her phone. "I already texted the nurses' station.They have my number, your number, and instructions to call if anything changes."

I look at her—really look at her. This girl I'd written off as a beautiful, rich cohort mate who happened to be smart. Who's spent seven hours in a hospital chair reading children's books and holding my hand and somehow knowing exactly what I need.

"Thank you," I whisper.

"Anytime," she says, unconsciously echoing Kade. "That's what friends do."

We sit there on the floor of that waiting room, her designer jeans getting dirty from the hospital floor, holding hands while I try to piece myself back together. Tomorrow, I'll have to be strong again. Tomorrow, I'll sign papers and watch them wheel my baby into surgery.

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