In 1987, he had been a senior attending physician at Westside Clinic.

I touched the dry paper, my fingertip tracing the sharp, aggressive strokes of his signature.

My mother had almost died of sepsis three days after this discharge.

She had spent three weeks in an intensive care unit at a public county hospital, a trauma that left her with chronic pain and permanent physical scarring.

Arthur Carter had signed her out anyway, certifying that she was fully recovered.

“Mom?” Lucas’s voice broke my focus.

He had turned away from the television screen, his dark eyes fixed on my face.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Mason looked up too, pulling his knees to his chest on the vinyl chair.

“I’m okay, sweetie,” I said, keeping my voice level. “Just reading some old papers.”

I turned the page, trying to hide the tremor in my hands.

Behind the discharge form was a yellow billing ledger, stamped with a purple ink seal.

The stamp read: *Account Delinquent – Transfer to County Pending.*

Beside the stamp, someone had written a code in pencil: *State Grant Cat-B.*