Jack felt something heavy settle in his chest. He had spent a decade building the repair shop into something that could survive an ordinary emergency. He had never imagined an emergency that would take him out of it indefinitely. "I can get you authorization," he said. "And I'll call the bank."
"You don't need to do that right now."
"I do if I want two people to have jobs when Lily gets home."
Mateo sighed. "That's the thing, Jack. Everybody at the shop knows what happened. Frank's offered to work weekends, and Dani's helping with invoices from home."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Mrs. Ellis said she'll wait on the compressor bill, and the hardware store will extend terms for another month. We are not holding our breath waiting for you to save us. We're handling what we can."
Jack studied him. "You told people?"
"I told them Lily was very sick and you needed to be with her. I didn't tell them anything you asked me not to tell."
The difference mattered. Jack had spent years thinking independence meant shielding his daughter from every struggle, never asking anyone to carry more than their share, and making sure nobody could use kindness as leverage. But Mateo and the others were not trying to buy a place in his life. They already had one. Jack thanked his friend, and for once he did not attach an apology to the gratitude.
That evening, Claire returned to bed twelve after a meeting about Lily's longer-term options. Some of the laboratory markers were moving in a better direction, but scans still showed severe weakness in the heart muscle. The team needed to prepare for the possibility that recovery would not happen quickly enough, and that an evaluation for transplantation might become necessary. A specialized group would assess Lily's overall condition, discuss eligibility, and explain the options to Jack without committing the family to a decision they had not reached.
Jack heard the word transplantation and looked immediately at the child in the bed. "How do you even tell an eight-year-old something like that?"
"Carefully," Claire replied. "And honestly, in words she can understand, when she's awake and able to ask questions. We have specialists who help children and families with those conversations. You won't have to invent every answer alone."
"Does going through the evaluation mean you think she's not getting better?"
"No. It means we're preparing for more than one possibility. We hope her heart recovers. We also don't want to lose time if it doesn't."
Jack pulled his chair closer. "How often does a child get better from this?"
Claire considered the question. She could have quoted results from published studies, but the numbers would not describe Lily's unique situation, and Jack had already shown her that vague reassurance was worse than an uncomfortable truth. "Children with severe myocarditis can recover, including some who need this kind of support," she said. "Others need different long-term treatment. There is no honest way for me to promise which path Lily will take today."