Three months with my sister's husband

The rusty old pickup truck roared down the expressway, its engine groaning in protest as Zoey pushed it beyond its limits. The speedometer needle trembled at its peak, but she didn't care. If she could force the old machine to go even faster, she would. Her grip on the worn-out steering wheel tightened, knuckles turning white. Her heartbeat drummed in sync with the roaring engine.

"How's everything back there?" she shouted over the wind whipping through the half-open windows.

Jake, her younger brother, sat in the truck bed, his arms wrapped protectively around their unconscious father. He glanced down at the frail, sickly man whose labored breathing sent a shiver of fear through him. Looking up, he nodded. "He's still unconscious, but he's holding on," he called back, his voice barely carrying over the sound of the rushing wind.

Zoey clenched her teeth and pressed the gas pedal harder, though the truck had long since reached its maximum speed.

The hospital came into view-a glimmer of hope against the backdrop of uncertainty. Without hesitation, she yanked the wheel and skidded the truck into a rough stop, the tires screeching against the pavement.

At the same time, a sleek blue Porsche glided smoothly through the hospital gates, carrying another emergency patient.

Zoey barely spared it a glance, her focus entirely on her father. But as she jumped out of the truck, a sickening sight made her freeze.

The emergency nurses who had initially rushed toward her vehicle suddenly changed course, veering toward the Porsche instead.

Her stomach twisted.

No.

Not now.

Not like this.

Her hands curled into fists as she watched them flock around the rich man's patient, as if her father's life was worth less than theirs.

She took a deep breath and forced herself forward. "Please! Someone help me!" she pleaded, calling out to the few nurses standing idly near the Porsche.

They ignored her.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, rage and desperation swirling in her chest. She scratched her head, frustration clawing at her insides. After racing against time to get here, she was now being stalled-not by distance, not by traffic, but by wealth.

She turned back to the truck, her heart sinking at the sight of Jake struggling to keep their father upright. The older man's head lolled to the side, his lips pale.

Zoey's breath hitched.

He was slipping away.

A surge of adrenaline kicked in. She didn't have time to waste.

Without another word, she sprinted into the hospital, her voice sharp with urgency. "I need help! My father-he's dying!"

But the nurses barely glanced at her.

One of them, a woman in a pristine uniform, shot her a dismissive look.

"Please, is it because of the way I look?" Zoey muttered under her breath, scanning their faces for even a shred of empathy.

No response.

Chaos surrounded her-doctors shouting, stretchers being wheeled in every direction, the constant hum of machines beeping in the background. Yet, in the middle of it all, she was invisible.

A hand suddenly tapped her shoulder.

She turned sharply to see Jake, panting. His face was damp with sweat, strands of hair sticking to his forehead.

"Zoey," he gasped, "we don't have time for this. Let's carry Dad ourselves."

Her pulse quickened. It was risky. But at this point, they had no choice.

Nodding, she wasted no time, dashing back toward the truck with Jake scrambling to keep up.

"Wait! I can't run that fast!" Jake called out, stopping to catch his breath, his hands braced on his knees.

Zoey groaned. "Young man, we don't have that much time!"

She jogged back, grabbed Jake, and hoisted him over her shoulder in one swift motion before sprinting toward the truck.

The scene drew attention. People paused mid-conversation, their eyes widening as they watched Zoey effortlessly carry her brother toward the vehicle.

Dropping him down beside the truck, she barked out orders. "Grab his legs-I'll take his head."

Jake swallowed hard and did as she said. Their father was heavier than they expected, his body limp, dead weight in their arms.

Struggling, staggering, they moved as fast as they could toward the emergency ward, their muscles burning with the effort. This time, they didn't bother asking for help.

They knew what the answer would be.

Jake's eyes darted around. "There! The emergency ward!" he exclaimed, nodding toward a glass door on the left.

They shifted course, moving with urgency. The moment they entered, they found an empty bed and gently laid their father down.

For a terrifying moment, no one noticed them.

All attention remained fixed on the rich man's patient.

Zoey clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palm.

A nurse finally turned and walked toward them-but instead of helping, she scowled.

"You need to leave the ward," she ordered, crossing her arms.

Zoey's knees hit the floor with a thud.

"Please," she begged, her voice raw. "He needs immediate attention. He's dying!"

She turned toward Jake, silently urging him to plead alongside her.

But instead of despair, a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Before Zoey could react, another nurse approached, whispering something into the first nurse's ear.

Something shifted.

Without another word, the two nurses hurried off-only to return moments later with medical equipment and a doctor.

Zoey's breath caught.

They were helping.

"Thank you! Thank you!" she cried, tears brimming in her eyes as she watched them begin treatment.

The nurse barely spared her a glance. "You're thanking the wrong person."

Zoey frowned but didn't dwell on it. Who else could it be?

Maybe it was Jake. His boyish face had earned them favors in the past.

A different nurse gestured toward the door. "You can wait outside while we diagnose him."

Zoey and Jake stepped out, settling onto a bench just outside the ward.

Minutes passed.

The blue Porsche's owner finally exited the ward, his daughter trailing behind him.

Zoey's jaw clenched as she shot him a glare, her chest tight with resentment.

Her father had almost died because of him. Because of what he represented.

She looked away, gripping the bench until her knuckles turned white.

Then, finally, the door swung open.

A doctor stepped out.

His white coat gleamed under the fluorescent lights, his youthful face betraying his inexperience. But Zoey didn't care how old he was-she only cared about what he had to say.

She shot to her feet. "Doctor, how's my dad?"

The doctor took a slow step forward, his gaze locking onto hers.

"Your dad..." He hesitated, and for a moment, the world around Zoey slowed.

"Unfortunately, your dad......"