Page 25 of Rhythm and Rapture (Behind the Lens #5)

I looked up to see Dr. Martinez—my Chemical Oncology professor—approaching with test results in hand. His face told me everything before his words did.

"When I saw your name on the admission, I asked to take over the case," he said gently, but his expression was grave. "I wanted to make sure you had someone who understood... both medically and personally."

I nodded, unable to speak, grateful for the familiar face even as terror clawed at my chest.

"Ms. Jaspe, the scans show a mass. Neuroblastoma, Stage 3. The tumor is pressing against his adrenal gland and the inferior vena cava..."

Everything went into a blur. Sounds faded as the doctor droned on about treatments and protocols. Certain phrases cut through the fog like knives: "advanced pediatric cancer," "immediate surgery required," "$47,000 upfront," "insurance processing time."

"But we have insurance," I remember saying, my voice sounding far away. "We can run everything through insurance, right?"

"Unfortunately, while we can apply for emergency coverage and try every avenue... these approvals take time. Time that, frankly, Kael doesn't have. The tumor is already compromising blood flow."

Time he doesn't have.

The words echo in my skull. What do people do in these circumstances? Do they just let their children die while waiting for bureaucracy? What does a twenty-year-old guardian do when the only family she has left is lying in a tiny hospital bed?

"Listen, Sabina," Dr. Martinez said gently.

"You are one of my brightest students. I know this must be devastating.

While I can't cover the treatment costs, I can ensure Kael is kept in a private suite in the pediatric oncology ward, and I'll personally check on him.

If you need anything, please let me know. "

I thanked him mechanically, signed what felt like hundreds of forms, then followed as they wheeled Kael's small body to his new room.

They move Kael to pediatric oncology—Room 4B.

The walls are painted with hot air balloons, like children with cancer are taking whimsical journeys instead of fighting for their lives.

Kael looks impossibly small against the white sheets, dwarfed by tubes and wires that make him look more machine than child.

IV poles loom like metal trees, monitors display vital signs I obsessively track—heart rate 92, blood pressure 95/60, oxygen saturation hovering at 94%.

I've memorized the acceptable ranges, know which alarms mean emergency and which just mean he shifted in his sleep.

When he wakes, confused and nauseated from the seizure medications, I use my calmest voice. "Hey, brave boy. The doctors are going to help make you feel better."

"My tummy hurts, Mama."

"I know, baby. Remember how we talked about good cells and confused cells? Some of your cells got confused, but the doctors know how to help them."

He accepts this with the trust only a three-year-old can muster.

Day One

I called Kade within the hour, catching him between sound check and show time.

"Sab? Everything okay? You never call during?—"

"Kael's in the hospital." The words tumbled out along with my tears. "Cancer. Stage 3. They need forty-seven thousand dollars or they won't operate until insurance approves and that could take weeks and?—"

"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 and cards 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 life isn'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—other parents 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.

I can't call him. Can't be the friend who ruins his moment of triumph with my tragedy.

But then I picture Kael that morning, drowsy from pain meds, asking if I could bring his dinosaur pajamas from home. "The T-Rex ones, Mama. They're brave."

Three years old and fighting something that would terrify a grown adult. That terrifies me. If he can fight, then so will I.

My thumb hits call before I can stop myself. The phone rings once, twice—it's 2 AM where he is, I realize with fresh guilt?—

"Sab?" He answers on the second ring, voice rough with sleep. "What's wrong?"

The familiar sound of his voice makes the words stick in my throat. I can't do this. I can't?—

"Sabina. Talk to me."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know it's late. I know you've spoken to me every time I call you. I know you're on tour. I shouldn't have?—"

"Sabina." His voice cuts through my spiral, firm but gentle. "Breathe."

But I can't. The air won't come. My chest is too tight, the walls closing in. I slide down the waiting room wall, phone pressed to my ear, gasping like a fish out of water.

"Sab, listen to me. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Come on, with me."

I can hear him breathing slowly, deliberately, and somewhere in Portland or Seattle or wherever Grimoire is playing tonight, my best friend is coaching me through a panic attack from a hotel room.

"That's it. Again. In for four..."

It takes five minutes before I can speak without gasping. Five minutes of Kade's steady voice, of him sacrificing sleep before a show, because he's been on the phone with me almost non-stop.