She scribbled the number on a scrap of paper and slid it onto the metal tray. Five thousand dollars. Just the down payment to be able to walk normally again.
The phone call that revealed everything.
That night, at the barracks, I was sitting on my bunk, my leg wrapped in thick gauze. Around me, life went on: laughter, music, someone shouting to be heard at a video game.
I stared at my phone for what seemed like hours before finally calling home.
My father answered cheerfully at the third ring. I could hear noises in the background: tools perhaps, or the television on.
“Dad,” I said, keeping my voice as calm as possible. “I hurt myself. It’s serious.”
I presented the facts objectively. The injury. The surgery. The timeline. The cost. I promised to pay it back in full. I just needed help immediately.
A heavy silence settled at the other end of the line. Then I heard it: that familiar sigh he always let out before saying no.
“We just bought the boat,” he said. “You know that. The timing is catastrophic.”
I closed my eyes. “It’s my leg,” I whispered. “If I don’t do this, I might never be able to walk properly again.”