The Hospital
We placed Gini’s bicycle into the trunk of the taxi. During the ride, she told me Harold had given it to her shortly before he passed away.
When we arrived at the hospital, her mother lay pale and thin in a narrow bed.
“She’s been here for two months,” Gini whispered. “Harold used to come sometimes to check on us. The last time I saw him, he gave me that envelope and made me promise I would deliver it to you.”
The doctor spoke to me outside the room.
“The surgery is urgent,” he explained. “Without it, her chances are not good. The issue is the cost.”
I thought about Harold writing that letter, hiding the key, trusting a child to deliver it. He had known exactly what I would discover.
“I’ll be back in two days,” I told them.
And I returned with the money for the surgery—the money Harold and I had saved together over a lifetime. Paying for it didn’t feel like a decision. It felt like finishing something Harold had begun.
The operation lasted six hours.
It was successful.
