Ryan studied the latest test
results, swearing under his breath when he saw the white blood count was still
rising. Scotty didn’t have long—months maybe, but more likely it would be just
a matter of a few weeks. The only shot he had was an experimental drug, but it
came at a heavy price, and as a foster kid at this point, the state’s insurance
program wouldn’t cover the drug or the special hospitalization that would be
required.
An hour later, Ryan’s hair was a mess, a testament to his constantly
running his hands through it. He kicked back in his chair as frustration
settled in. Ryan was well-known for his successful extraction of generous
donations from the filthy rich when he had a child in need. This time, however,
he was 0-3.
His donors were tapped out at the
moment, and Scotty was running out of time. Next month, they’d all said, but
Scotty might not even be here next month. He needed the treatment now, as in
tomorrow, if he stood any sort of chance. Where was he going to get the money
for Scotty?
Grimacing, he looked at the
last number on his donor list. Clarissa
Black. He couldn’t stand the uppity woman and he was pretty sure she felt
the same way about him. He thought back to their run in a few days ago, her beautiful red hair flying and her
porcelain skin practically glowing with rage at his bold comments.
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