Inside, three nurses were already surrounding the bed.

The monitor beside Mary’s head was emitting a flat, continuous tone.

“Get the cart,” Dr. Rao shouted inside the room.

The blinds were partially open, and I could see Mary’s pale face, her eyes closed, her chest still.

Ethan pressed his hand against the glass, his fingers leaving a smudge on the cold surface.

“Mary,” he whispered.

A nurse pulled a curtain closed, blocking our view.

The flat tone of the monitor continued, echoing through the small cracks in the door.

I looked down at the floor, where Dr. Rao’s clipboard lay.

One of the loose papers was a printout of Mary’s admission records.

Across the top of the page, stamped in bright red ink, were the words: *Billing Dispute – Account Delinquent.*

My phone buzzed in my pocket, the vibration hard against my hip.

I pulled it out with trembling fingers.

The screen lit up with an unknown number.

I swiped the screen and put the phone to my ear.

“Evelyn Higgins?” a voice asked.

It was a man’s voice, raspy and dry, like dry leaves scraping across a concrete sidewalk.