If you loved your son, Connor, you wouldn't begrudge his family a modest meal.
I carried Frederick out to the car, his small body a furnace against my chest. Amy followed, her steps slow, her face slick with sweat despite the cool evening air. She held a damp washcloth to Frederick’s forehead.
“Extra ice,” I managed, pushing the lie past my lips. My voice felt like sandpaper. “We’ll be back in an hour.”
Teresa just nodded, a slight smile on her face. Her guests, still laughing inside, didn’t even glance our way. The air smelled of expensive wine and cooked crab.
The drive to the municipal pediatric urgent care clinic was a blur of flashing streetlights and Frederick’s weak, intermittent cries. He was usually so vibrant, so full of energy. Now he just lay against Amy, his little chest rattling.
Amy huddled in the passenger seat, shivering. “My head is pounding, Connor,” she whispered.
My stomach twisted. I should have taken them out hours ago.
We arrived at the clinic at 5:40 PM. The waiting room was sterile and quiet, a stark contrast to the party we’d just fled. A few other parents sat slumped in plastic chairs, their children dozing fitfully on laps.
I filled out the intake forms, my hand shaking slightly as I wrote Frederick’s temperature: 103.2 degrees. The receptionist told us the copay would be $75.
“No problem,” I said, reaching for my phone. I navigated to my mobile banking app, the familiar blue icon a small comfort in the chaos. This was routine. I always kept Frederick’s medical reserve fund separate, untouched.
The screen loaded, a dull white light in the dim room. I tapped on the savings account.
My breath hitched.
The balance was wrong. Terribly wrong.
I blinked, scrubbing a hand over my eyes. Had I clicked the wrong account? No. This was it.
My heart began to hammer against my ribs.
Instead of the $15,000 I meticulously maintained for Frederick’s emergency medical needs, the account showed a balance of exactly $500.
$14,500 was gone.
My fingers flew across the screen, pulling up the transaction history. There it was, stark and undeniable. A single outgoing transfer, dated yesterday.
“Transfer to Private Account,” the line read.
Beneath it, a small push notification flashed: “Transaction initiated from 1234 Oakridge Lane.”
My home address.
My gaze snapped to Amy. She was rocking Frederick gently, her eyes closed, completely unaware. The fluorescent lights of the waiting room hummed, a cruel, indifferent backdrop to the sudden, icy dread that spread through my veins.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours