The next morning, I called the military hospital again. The answer hadn’t changed. Approval was still pending. Timelines were still under review. Time I didn’t have.
I stared at my phone, at the contact list, at numbers I’d never wanted to use. Payday lenders. High-interest personal loans. The kind of places that smile too wide and speak too softly.
I went anyway.
The office smelled like cheap coffee and desperation. The man across the desk spoke in calm, rehearsed sentences while his computer calculated how much of my future I was trading for my present. The interest rate was obscene. The repayment schedule was cruel.
“Do you understand the terms?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
I signed.
The surgery was scheduled for two days later. The morning of the procedure, I lay on a gurney, staring at the ceiling tiles, counting the cracks like they might tell me something important. A nurse adjusted my IV. The anesthesiologist asked me to count backward. As the world faded, I thought of my father’s voice. We just bought a boat.
When I woke up, my leg was wrapped in layers of bandages and metal. The pain was sharp but clean, like something had finally been set right.
The surgeon came by later and confirmed what I already felt. “We got it in time,” he said. “You’ll recover fully if you follow rehab.”
Relief washed through me so fast it almost hurt.
