Page 26 of Rhythm and Rapture (Behind the Lens #5)

"The finance department cannot come through, Kade.

Kael needs surgery," I finally manage, words slurring and raw.

"The tumor's pressing against—" My voice cracks.

I'm so grateful he already knows all of this, and yet the word vomit bursts out, ugly and relentless, my tears warping everything into a slurry of sounds.

"It's been growing while I thought he had the fucking flu, Kade.

I thought he was just tired from preschool.

But it was reduced blood flow. What kind of mother am I? "

"Stop it. Do you hear me?" His voice is sharp, almost a snap. "This isn't your fault. Not even a little." And then, softer, "You know that, right?"

I try to nod, but it comes out as another strangled sob.

"They want forty-seven thousand up front," I gasp. "Insurance is 'processing' but the tumor could compromise his kidney function and—" My throat closes. "Please, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Sab, listen to me. Don't talk, just listen," he says, every syllable like a lifeline. "Do you remember freshman year when I was so broke I was stealing protein bars from the campus market?"

"That's different?—"

"You fed me for three months. Bought my textbooks. Never asked for anything back. Never made me feel like I owed you. So shut up and send me the fucking wire information."

"I'm asking for too much. This is your dream, Kade. Grimoire just got the advance?—"

"My dream includes my nephew surviving cancer," he says, as if that's the most obvious thing in the world. "Wire info, Sabina. Now."

The sob that escapes me comes from somewhere deep, somewhere I've been holding together with duct tape and desperation.

"He's so small, Kade. There's this thing inside him, growing, and I couldn't protect him from it."

"I know. But he's tough. He's got you."

"I can't lose him, Kade. What if?—"

"No what-ifs. Treatment first, worry later.

Let me help." I hear his voice break and I realize that just like me, he's picturing Kael.

The kid who calls him Uncle Kade on FaceTime, who insists on showing him every new dinosaur fact he learns, who fell asleep on Kade's shoulder last Thanksgiving while Grimoire practiced in my garage.

This isn't just my loss to face—it's his too.

Kael is the closest thing to family either of us has left.

"You love him too," I whisper.

"Of course I do. He's my nephew in every way that matters. So stop trying to protect me from this and let me help save him."

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.

But tonight, I can fall apart knowing that I'm not as alone as I thought I was. And for the first time since Maria died, that knowledge feels like strength instead of weakness.

PRESENT DAY

Kael wakes at 4 a.m. drenched in sweat, his cries so quiet I almost miss them beneath the steady beep of monitors.

I'm at his bedside before I'm fully awake, muscle memory from eighteen months of treatment—every hospital admission since diagnosis, the post-surgery recovery, the brutal nights between chemo rounds, the home care crises, and now this.

"I'm here, baby. Mommy is here.”

But he's not really hearing me. His eyes are huge and unfocused, jaw locked, body starting to tremor.

I know this dance—I hit the call button and hold him as his muscles seize, every tiny limb rigid as piano wire.

The nurse arrives as his lips peel back in that terrible silent rictus I see in my nightmares.

"How long?" she asks, already paging the resident.

"Two minutes. Maybe three." I'm counting in my head, the way I learned to during his first post-chemo seizures.

When it finally passes, he sags against me like a broken doll.

His heart flutters against my chest, too fast, too light—a hummingbird trapped in a cage made of ribs.

The resident arrives, increases his Keppra, orders more blood work, dims the lights.

Routine adjustments to medications that are slowly poisoning him while trying to save him.

I slump back in the visitor chair, staring at my hands. They're shaking as badly as Kael's were, and the thought that follows is as familiar as it is destructive: I did this.

My phone buzzes.

Ash: Okay, we're officially worried. Are you avoiding us? Did we do something wrong?

The text blurs as tears I didn't know were coming spill over.

I want to tell them the truth—that what happened between us was the first time I felt whole since Maria died.

That I've replayed every moment during these endless hospital nights.

That they gave me something I didn't even know I was starving for.

But my reality is this: a five-year-old whose body is failing, who needs me stable and present and not distracted by wants I've trained myself to ignore.

Hours later, after Kael's stabilized and sleeping, I escape to the bathroom. Seventeen missed calls. Forty-three texts. The parallel hits me hard—eighteen months ago, I swallowed my pride and called Kade because Kael was dying and money could fix it.

Now I'm doing the opposite, pushing away three men who've already seen every carefully hidden part of me. Because this time it's not about money. It's about needing them in ways that terrify me more than any medical crisis.

The truth I can't escape, sitting on this bathroom floor at 7 a.m., is that I'm drowning.

I've been strong for so long—had to be, no other choice.

When you grow up the responsible one, the one who checks if your sister ate between highs, who does homework while monitoring overdoses, who plans for contingencies because every adult in your life is one bad day from disappearing—you learn that needing people is dangerous.

Maria taught me that loving someone doesn't mean they'll choose you. That being good and smart and trying your hardest doesn't guarantee anyone will stay. So I learned to be enough on my own. To never need more than I could provide myself.

But Roman, Ash, and Felix didn't treat me like a project or a fantasy.

They saw me—brilliant and broken and trying so hard to hold it all together.

And now I'm hiding in a hospital bathroom, terrified not of their rejection but of how desperately I want to stop being strong.

To let someone else carry some of this weight.

To admit I need them—not their money, not their fame, just them—would be admitting I'm not as self-sufficient as I've pretended. That maybe I've been drowning for years and just gotten good at holding my breath.

My hands shake as I type:

Sabina: Just need some space. Thank you for everything.

I turn off my phone before their responses can weaken my resolve. Before I do something stupid like admit that space is the last thing I need… that what I need is arms strong enough to hold me while I finally, finally fall apart.