She doesn't need $85,000 for experimental therapy when she is going to pass away by winter anyway.
The next morning, before the sun had even properly risen, Nora Montgomery swept into Room 408 at 6:00 AM. She wasn’t alone.
Two orderlies, dressed in matching blue scrubs, waited nervously in the hallway, pushing an empty wheelchair. Nora carried a small duffel bag, her face pale and drawn.
“Hannah,” she said, her voice an unnatural calm. “We’re leaving.”
I blinked at her, still half-asleep. “Leaving?”
“Yes. I’ve signed the discharge papers,” she announced, pulling a stapled form from her purse. Her signature, neat and looping, was at the bottom. “We’re transferring you to a private home-care facility. It’s much quieter. Better for your recovery.”
My mind raced. A private home-care facility. In rural Pennsylvania. Just like Ward wanted. Just as Finch had warned.
I looked at the discharge papers in her hand. “No.”
Nora’s placid expression cracked. “What do you mean, ‘no’? I’m your mother. I’m your legal guardian.”
“I’m not going,” I stated, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands.
I reached for the nurse’s call button on the wall beside my head. My finger pressed it down, holding it.
A moment later, a polite but firm voice came through the intercom. “Room 408, do you require assistance?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice clear. “My mother is trying to remove me against my will.”
Nora’s face flushed a deep crimson. “Hannah, what are you doing?”
Just then, a nurse supervisor, Ms. Peterson, entered the room, her expression concerned. She looked from Nora to me, then to the waiting orderlies in the hallway.
“Mrs. Montgomery, is there a problem here?” Ms. Peterson asked, her voice even.
“My daughter is being difficult,” Nora snapped, her composure slipping. “I’m her guardian, and I’m moving her to a better facility.”
Ms. Peterson looked at the discharge papers. “While you are her guardian, Mrs. Montgomery, a patient has the right to refuse transfer if they feel unsafe or coerced, especially a minor.”
She turned to me. “Hannah, do you feel unsafe being transferred?”
I met her gaze. “Yes. I do.”
Ms. Peterson nodded, then addressed Nora. “I’m afraid we cannot proceed with the transfer without her consent, or without a direct court order compelling it.”
Nora sputtered, her eyes darting to the door. “But… but I’m the mother!”
At that precise moment, my phone, which had been buzzing quietly on the bedside table, chimed with an incoming text. It was from Finch: “Emergency motion for stay of removal just filed with duty judge. Stand firm.”
I looked at Nora, then at the empty wheelchair. Her plan, Ward’s plan, was crumbling.
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