The Offer

The hospital bill has seven digits.

I read it three times, hoping the numbers will rearrange themselves into something survivable. They don't.

$487,000.

That's after insurance. After the payment plan they're "generously" offering. After every discount and assistance program I've already applied for.

Ethan is asleep in the bed next to me, machines beeping softly, his face too thin and too pale. My baby brother. Twenty-four years old. Dying of something I can't pronounce and definitely can't afford to treat.

The transplant will save him. The doctors are confident. Ninety percent success rate with his specific condition.

Ninety percent.

But first, I need to come up with half a million dollars.

I close the billing statement and shove it in my purse. No need to let Ethan see it. He already feels guilty enough for getting sick, like leukemia was something he did on purpose.

"Hey." His voice is scratchy. "You're doing that thing with your face."

"What thing?"

"The 'I'm pretending everything's fine but actually panicking' thing." He shifts in the bed, wincing. "You've been doing it since seventh grade. Not subtle."

"I'm not panicking."

"Ava."

"I'm creatively problem-solving."

He laughs, then coughs. I hand him water automatically, we have a routine now, three weeks into this hospital stay.

"Did the insurance call back?" he asks.

"Still processing."

It's not a lie. They are still processing. Processing my appeals. My documentation. My increasingly desperate voicemails.

"I could sell a kidney," Ethan offers.

"You need your kidneys."

"Only one of them."

"Ethan."

"What? Black market organs are a thing. I watched a documentary."

"You're not selling organs."

"You're not fun."

I squeeze his hand. His skin is papery, wrong. He used to be the healthy one, soccer in college, weekend hiking trips, the kind of effortless energy I was always jealous of.

Now he can barely walk to the bathroom.

"Get some sleep," I tell him. "I'll be back tomorrow after work."

"Ava." He doesn't let go of my hand. "It's going to be okay."

He's the one in the hospital bed. He's the one comforting me.

I don't deserve him.

"I know," I say. "Sleep."

I kiss his forehead and leave before he can see my eyes water.

My apartment is small, dark, and currently ninety degrees because the AC unit died last week and I can't afford to fix it.

I drop onto my couch, secondhand, lumpy, the only thing that fits in my studio, and stare at the ceiling.

$487,000.

My savings account has $3,400. My credit cards are maxed. My parents are retired and living on fixed income in Arizona. I've already sold everything worth selling.

I pick up my phone. Scroll through GoFundMe pages for people with stories like Ethan's. Some of them have raised hundreds of thousands. Pictures of kids with cancer, families devastated, communities rallying.

Ethan's campaign has raised $12,000 in three weeks.

It's not nothing.

It's also not even close.

I open my email, dreading the rejection letters that seem to multiply daily. Denied. Declined. Unfortunately, your application does not meet our criteria.

And then I see it.

A new message from an address I don't recognize.

From: DiscreetArrangements@ashfordconsulting.com Subject: Proposition

I almost delete it. It looks like spam, or worse, some kind of escort scam.

But something makes me click.

> Ms. Reyes, > > I represent a client seeking a contractual arrangement of a personal nature. Specifically: a marriage of convenience, duration one year. > > Compensation: $500,000, paid in monthly installments. > > Requirements: Cohabitation, public appearances, absolute discretion. > > This is a legitimate business proposal from a verified source. My client is a prominent businessman with specific inheritance requirements that necessitate a wife by a certain date. > > If you are interested, please reply to schedule a meeting. All discussions are confidential and protected by NDA. > > Regards, > M. Thornton > Legal Representative

I read it five times.

$500,000.

For pretending to be married. For one year.

It's insane.

It's absolutely, completely insane.

It's also $13,000 more than I need to save my brother's life.

I put the phone down. Pick it up again. Put it down.

This is how women end up murdered. Answering strange emails from men who want to "marry" them. I should delete this immediately.

But.

But Ethan is dying.

But the transplant could save him.

But there is no other option.

I think about my brother's papery skin. His brave jokes. The way he told me it would be okay even though we both know it might not be.

I pick up my phone.

My hands are shaking as I type.

> I'm interested. When can we meet?

I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.

Then I sit in my sweltering apartment, staring at the screen, wondering what the hell I just did.