Alexis broke the silence; I'd thought she'd fallen asleep. “I want to ask you something, and you have to answer it.”
“I can't hear the question first?” She looked me in the eye, pure seriousness. “Alright. Ask me.”
Trailing her palm down my chest, she lowered her voice. “Why did you rob Old Stone bank? You mentioned... revenge.”
She was lying on top of my heart, she could feel it drumming. “It's not something you want to hear.”
“Of course I do. Anything that let's me understand you better is worth knowing.”
Tracing the line of her cheek, I hesitated. “It's a sad story, and I'm terrified of making you sad ever again.”
Light entered her eyes, turning the green color into a summer pond. I could see to the bottom, her emotions swimming like fish. Leaning up, she met my lips with a tender kiss. “If I cry, you'll just have to hold me. Is that so bad?”
Cradling her against me, I luxuriated in her skin on mine. “No. Not at all.”
It was a story I'd never told another soul.
I had never planned to.
Lying there under the weight of the most perfect woman in the world, I tore back the layers of my past.
And I told her everything.
“How long does he have to live?”
I asked the question, but the answer couldn't get through the cotton in my brain. Cancer. How could my younger brother have cancer? He was too young, too healthy, too...
Too innocent.
“Mr. Silverwell? Mr. Silverwell.” I was only nineteen, I wasn't used to being called a Mr. Anything. “Keswick.” The doctor said my name sharply, pulling me from my funk. When he saw I was listening, he sighed. “I know this is hard. But, if he does the treatment exactly as planned, he might live longer than anyone could hope for.”
He was wrong, of course.
I was already hoping for eternity.
“As his guardian,” he said, flipping through his paperwork, “You'll get to make the call. But you should really talk to him first.”
Of course I would talk to him. I'd also do my fucking best to convince him that he had to do this. He was fifteen, how could he NOT fight? I was practicing every argument I could think of when I sat across from Brodie in our apartment.
He beat me to it.
“I want to live,” he said, no hint of fear or wavering. “I'll do whatever I have to. Give me chemo, give me prayer, give me anything.” Looking me in the eye, he smiled so that his dimples showed. “What's the point of living if you aren't willing to risk everything to keep doing it?”
I'd never hugged him harder than that moment.
We had such belief in our own strength... in the good of the world. How could we possibly lose?
The insurance company told us how.
“It's the policy,” the third man on the phone said to me. “Your parents are the ones that put you on this plan, and you've never changed it. It doesn't pay for the kind of treatment you're seeking. I'm sorry, Mr. Silverwell.”
“This isn't about any fucking policy!” I screamed. “You're talking about someone's life! Doesn't that matter at all!?”
“Sir, if you like, I can put you through to customer service—”
“Fuck your customer service!”
The man on the line went quiet. “...Listen. There's nothing we can do for you.”
“Can, or won't?” I spat.
“Won't,” he admitted, and I sensed bitter humor in his tone. “Good luck, Sir.” He probably hung up, but I couldn't say, because I'd dropped the phone onto the floor and stomped it to pieces.
Nothing about this made sense to me. How could we live in a world where a boy—a BOY—could die because an insurance company decided their 'policy' didn't cover treatment? How was this possible?
Worse, they'd been siphoning money from us the whole time. Each bill claimed different things, saying the basic procedures Brodie was undergoing weren't covered, either.
In a single month, we went from two happy brothers... to two people crushed under massive debt. But screw the money, I wanted my brother to get the treatment he needed. Even if it could only give him a little more time, it would be enough.
Anything would be enough.
I'd been working as a coder at a security software company since before graduating. Even as a tiny child, I'd been fascinated with computers. It came naturally to me. I pushed my company for more hours, for advances in my salary.
It didn't matter. None of it did.
Brodie passed away four months after being diagnosed. And still, the insurance company wasn't done kicking us into the mud. They held his life policy, and they decided that his death was preventable.
Preventable with the treatment they refused to provide.
I was broke. Not just financially... but emotionally. It was a hateful numbness I'd never experienced, or dreamed was possible. How could humans feel like I did? But then, how could they feel so little that they'd let a young boy wither and die?