For the next four days, Laura was a ghost — working her shifts, coming home to make phone calls behind closed doors, barely sleeping.

I grew weaker by the hour, the fatigue settling into my bones like lead. I braced myself for the end.

On Friday she walked into my bedroom holding a single piece of paper. She looked ten years older, but there was a fierce, triumphant smile on her face.

“We start treatment Monday,” she said.

“How?” I gasped, sitting up. “Mom, how did you get the money? Did the state approve it?”

“No.” She sat on the edge of my bed and smoothed my hair back. “I found a cash buyer. An investor who flips properties.”