Contracted to the Broken Alpha

chapter 3 There is no better choice

“Based on his past injuries, the traditional spinal fusion surgery… gives him about a 40% chance of full recovery. At best. Is there an experimental option? I read about one… a titanium mesh transplant being developed at Johns Hopkins?”

Dr. Martinez’s eyes open a little wider in surprise. “You’re sharp, Sarah. You’re right. Traditional fusion welds the bones together for stability, but it’s a crude fix that limits flexibility forever. The technique you mentioned—we call it Dr. Harrison’s technique is much more elegant. It uses a custom-printed, flexible titanium mesh to support the bone, like a scaffold, letting it heal and move naturally.”

“Like building scaffolding,” I say. “It holds up the structure, so the core can heal itself from the inside.”

“Exactly,” she says, a little excitement in her voice, as she pulls out some before-and-after pictures from a folder. Over time, the bone grows into the mesh and fuses with it. It creates a new, hybrid foundation that’s stronger than the original bone or a traditional fusion.”

“What’s the success rate?” I press.

“A 70% chance of full, unrestricted movement,” she says, her voice cautious but hopeful. “Patients can walk, run, even play sports again. They get their old lives back. For a seventeen-year-old kid like Dan, with his age and specific injury, it’s his only real chance at a normal life.”

A tiny, bright, and fragile flame lights up the suffocating darkness.

For the first time since the phone call, I can breathe normally.

“When can we schedule the surgery?” I ask urgently.

Her face gets serious. “There’s a big problem, Sarah. The surgery isn’t officially approved by the FDA yet. It’s still in clinical trials. That means insurance won’t pay a dime for it.”

“Not a single dime?” My voice almost breaks.

“No, I’m afraid not,” she says, opening a spreadsheet on her computer. It’s a cost estimate. “The surgery itself, the after-care in the ICU, the extensive physical therapy, and Dr. Harrison’s fee from Johns Hopkins… it all adds up to about one million dollars.”

One million dollars. The number hits me like a big hammer to the chest, knocking the air out of my lungs.

I only have $347.23 in my bank account.

My tiny paycheck from the coffee shop barely covers rent, and my landlord is already sending texts threatening to kick me out.

One million dollars for Dan to walk again is like me taking a trip to the moon.

“What about the traditional fusion surgery?” I ask in a low voice.

“Insurance covers that completely,” she says softly. “But for Dan, with his injury history, his chance of walking again is about 40%. Even if it works, his movement would be limited for life.”

Forty percent. I think of Dan’s big, goofy grin, of him talking excitedly about his college football dreams, making me promise to come to every one of his games. He shouldn’t be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. He’s so young.

“Is there… a payment plan? Medical loans? Anything?”

“For an experimental surgery this expensive?” She shakes her head, her eyes full of pity.

“Most lenders won’t touch it. But if you can show proof of the funds in 48 hours, we can hold the surgery spot for him. Remember, we only have a 72-hour window before the spinal damage could become permanent.”

Forty-eight hours to find a million dollars. Seventy-two hours to save Dan’s life. I almost want to laugh hysterically. The situation is so crazy it’s making me dizzy.

I can’t even pay my $800 rent.

How am I supposed to find a million dollars?

I’m going crazy.

I stumbled out of the doctor's office. My legs felt like they didn't belong to me anymore.

The one-million-dollar price tag felt like a giant, invisible weight on my shoulders, making it difficult to even stand up straight.

The long hallway of the ICU seemed to twist and spin in front of my eyes.

Every beep… beep… beep from the heart monitor down the hall sounded like a funeral drum, counting down the last precious moments of Dan’s future.

I leaned my forehead against the cold wall and tried to force my messy brain to work, to find any path forward. Who could I ask for money right now? Who could help me get a million dollars? Yes, a million dollars! My friends just started their careers. Who would have a million dollars in their bank account? Even if they all gave me everything they had, it wouldn't even be close to what I need. A loan? Dr. Martinez already told me that it was just a fantasy. Asking for a donation? There was no time for that. I felt a hopeless feeling, like a monster about to swallow me whole.

“Are you okay, honey?” A nurse from the nurses' station walked over to me. She asked in a soft voice.

“Barely,” I said, my voice rough.

“Where am I going to find a million dollars? I don’t know!”

“Don’t be sad. Sit down first, take a good rest, and think of a way.”

She helped me to a waiting area next to the nurses' station to sit down. I could see her name tag: Nurse, Clara.

Tears and exhaustion took over me. I just sat there, crying quietly.

The Fortune magazine I had been carrying fell to the floor.

“You dropped your magazine.”

The same nurse came over and picked it up.

She smoothed out the wrinkled cover of the magazine. Suddenly, her eyes lit up.

“This is Mr. Jones! His company donated two labs to the hospital just last month!”

I looked at her, surprised. “You’ve seen him? Ryan Jones?”

“I only saw him from far away at the donation ceremony that day. He’s pretty tall and very handsome.”

“Is that true? He donated labs? Two of them?” I asked, amazed.

Clara nodded, her forehead wrinkled a little with curiosity. “Yes, that's right. He also gave a giant donation a few years ago to build the cancer research center. It’s on the left side when you come in the main entrance. You’ll see it when you leave. I remember there’s a monument there, too. Why are you asking about this all of a sudden?”

“I need to contact Ryan Jones,” I said. “I need to talk to him tonight. Right now.”

Clara stared at me for a long time. It was difficult to know what she was thinking.

“You know,” she said, her voice back to normal, “I’ve worked in this ICU for fifteen years. I’ve seen many families come through these doors. I’ve seen them fall apart. I’ve seen them give up when things get too hard. But why don’t you try? Maybe it will work out. The hope might be small, but maybe… maybe you can get help from the Jones company. Who knows. Good luck, honey. I’ll be praying for you and your brother.”

“Thank you, Clara,” I said.

I walked quickly to the cancer center lab on the left side of the main entrance, just like Clara said. And right by the door, I found the monument covered in words of thanks. At the very bottom, in small letters, it said: For business partnerships and donation matters, please call 853-1022-0 - Jones Holding.

I found a payphone in a dark corner of the hospital lobby. My cell phone died half an hour ago. I dropped a few coins into the slot. With a shaking hand, I dialed the number from the monument. The phone rang for a long time. Each ring made me more nervous. Just as I was about to give up and slam the phone down, someone answered.

“Jones Holding, Lauren Carter,” a very calm voice said.

“Hello, my name is Sarah Miller,” I said, forcing my voice to sound as calm and professional as hers. “I need to speak with Mr. Ryan Jones immediately. This is an emergency.”

“Do you have an appointment, Miss Miller? What company are you with?” Her voice had no emotion. It was like I was talking to a polite machine.

“I don’t have an appointment,” I said. My voice started to shake even though I tried my best to control it.

“I’m sorry, you’ve reached our business donation center. I cannot help you without an appointment. What is the name of your company?” she interrupted me, her tone final.

I quickly hung up the phone. My heart was pounding like a drum.

There were 68 hours left. Time was ticking away, and I couldn't even get past a secretary.

What should I do?

I didn’t hesitate for another second. I walked quickly toward the hospital's main exit. The moment I stepped into the cold night air, I started to run, heading straight for the subway station. My whole world had shrunk down to a single, pulsing mission: One Financial Plaza, 47th floor.

I ran out of the subway station and into the cold Boston night. The wind from the harbor felt like a slap on my face, and tears streamed down my cheeks. Across the street, One Financial Plaza shot up into the night sky. Its hundreds of lit windows were like cold eyes looking down on the city.

Two security guards in uniform were visible behind the main entrance. There was no way I could get in through there. They would take one look at me and throw me out before I could even say a word.

How am I going to get in?