“What is this?” my voice came out as a hollow, broken whisper. “Elena… what is happening?”
The man in scrubs sighed softly, stepping back and lowering his hands. “Mr. Vance, my name is Dr. Joseph Morrow. I’m a private oncology specialist from the city clinic. I’m terribly sorry you had to find out like this.”
Elena collapsed against my chest, her tears soaking through my shirt as the truth came pouring out in a ragged torrent. Six months ago, while I was buried under the stress of losing my accounting partnership and struggling to keep our family afloat, Elena had been diagnosed with an aggressive, advanced stage of leukemia. Fearing that the crushing financial weight of experimental treatment would bankrupt us and destroy the fragile peace of our home, she had made a secret arrangement. Dr. Morrow, an old family friend, agreed to administer her daily, specialized chemotherapy and pain management injections late at night, entirely off the books and free of charge, using surplus clinic supplies.
