Imani’s stomach dropped.
“How much?”
“The hospital requires half the projected cost before scheduling the procedure.”
“How much is half?”
“At least one hundred and forty thousand dollars.”
For a second, the room made no sense.
One hundred and forty thousand dollars.
She made twelve dollars an hour at the diner. Fifteen with Morrison before overtime. Even working like a machine, she would not touch that number in years.
“I don’t have that,” she whispered.
Dr. Smith’s face softened with helplessness. “I know. But without progress by the end of the week, we cannot move forward.”
After he left, Imani sat still until her whole body felt numb.
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