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I stood there in the puddles, finger hovering over the screen. Dragged Isabella's number into my block list. Then scrolled to that pure black avatar and pressed "Block this Caller" on Marcelo's name.

Block. Cut. Delete.

Only the rain remained.

I flagged down a mud-splattered yellow cab, collapsed into the backseat, and gave the driver my home address in a voice that barely held together.

I couldn't stay in this city. I was going home. My real home.

The tires churned through puddles. Outside the window, the city warped and twisted in the rain. I curled into the corner of the seat, mind spinning. All those soft words in the Paris fitting room. All those promises in the car. They turned to filth the second I saw Isabella's face.

"Mom? I'm home..."

I unlocked the apartment door and pushed it open. Darkness.

No soup simmering. No news anchor droning from the TV. Just cold, dead silence. Half a glass of oat milk sat on the table, a skin of dried film hardening on top.

"Mom?"

I pushed open her bedroom door. The bed was made. Her white nurse's cardigan hung crooked on the chair.

She wasn't here.

Today was supposed to be her day off.

My phone exploded in my hand.

Not a Manhattan number. A local landline. St. Mary's Hospital Emergency Department.

My heart stopped.

I swiped to answer. "Hello? This is Ruby..."

"Ruby Caldwell? This is the ER!" Chaos roared in the background—heart monitor alarms, running footsteps. "Your mother, Mary Caldwell, suffered a massive acute myocardial infarction an hour and a half ago with cardiogenic shock! A neighbor found her collapsed at the grocery store and called 911. She went into V-fib on arrival!"

The floor tilted. I slammed into the doorframe. "How is she? Please save her!"

"We got her rhythm back with defibrillation, but the angiogram shows severe triple-vessel disease with calcification. She needs emergency coronary artery bypass grafting—now!" The nurse's voice clipped fast and cold. "But your mother's insurance is basic Medicaid. It won't cover this level of surgery or post-op ECMO support. Hospital policy requires a deposit of at least sixty-five thousand dollars before we can start, plus another twenty thousand for ICU. You need to bring cash or a certified check within the hour, or the surgical team can't open the OR!"

"Eighty-five thousand?"

I screamed, tasting blood in my throat. "My mother worked as a nurse at St. Mary's for twenty years! Can't you make an exception and save her first?"

"I'm sorry, Ms. Caldwell. This is hospital policy. No one has authority to waive it. Your mother could go into V-fib again any minute. Get the money. Now."

The line went dead.

The apartment filled with my ragged breathing and the thunder outside.

Eighty-five thousand dollars. In one hour.

For me, that might as well be the moon.

I tore into my room and dumped every drawer onto the floor.

Debit cards. Student credit cards. My tip jar from side gigs—I smashed it open.

I knelt on the cold floor, stabbing at my banking app with shaking fingers, checking every balance.