“And beans don’t fix a broken back,” he shot back.
Silence.
Then—quietly—he said, “Come here.”
He stood up slowly and shuffled toward the roll-top desk again.
My stomach tightened, because the last time he went to that desk, he pulled out a passbook and changed my life.
This time, he pulled out a manila folder.
He set it on the table like it weighed a hundred pounds.
“What’s that?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
He opened it.
Inside were papers.
Not bank statements.
Bills.
Thick, official-looking bills.
He slid one toward me.
I looked at the total and my mouth went dry.
It was… a lot.
More than my rent used to be.
More than my monthly take-home.
“What is this?” I whispered.
Frank’s voice went flat.
“Last year,” he said, “I fell in the yard.”
I frowned.
“You didn’t tell me that,” I said.
“Because I got up,” he said simply. “And I didn’t want you looking at me like I was breakable.”
He tapped the bill.
“Ambulance,” he said. “Hospital. Scans. Three hours in a bed with a curtain.”
He flipped the paper over like he was showing a bad magic trick.
“Insurance covered some,” he said. “Some.”
I stared at the numbers until they stopped feeling real.
Then I looked at him.
“But you have money,” I said. “You have three hundred—”