Chapter 1 The bill

A phone chimed on a pillow.   

The sound was thin and impatient. It cut through the dark and died in the mess of clothes and sheets tangled across the bed.

Eleanor stirred awake from her sleep. She dragged a hand across her face and yawned, the kind of yawn that didn’t wake her up, just reminded her body how tired it was despite the sleep she just had. The ceiling above her was stained in one corner. She had stopped noticing it a year ago.

She reached for the phone. One missed call. Unknown number. Probably the loan office again or maybe one of the loan sharks. She didn’t answer. She set it down and walked away barefoot, the cold tile biting at her feet.

The apartment was small. Two rooms, a small bathroom, a little living room space and a kitchen that had been carved out of what used to be a closet. In Madrid, people paid too much for too little, and immigrants paid the most. The walls were thin. She could hear her neighbor having morning after care, with probably one of his sidechicks. Again. They were always loud.

The kitchen was cramped. A hot plate, a dented kettle, three mugs. She filled the kettle and set it to boil. There was no milk. There hadn’t been milk in weeks. The coffee was cheap and bitter and it burned going down. She took one sip, made a face, and spat it into the sink. The rest she poured out. She couldn’t afford to waste it, but she also couldn’t afford to keep it down.

In the bathroom she brushed her teeth with water and toothpaste that tasted like chalk. She splashed her face and stared at herself in the cracked mirror. Twenty-three. Hair tied back with a rubber band. She looked like a mess for her age. Grief and debt did that.

In the kitchen. She arranged three slices of toasted bread on a chipped plate. No butter. She poured water into a glass and set a small cup of pills beside it. The tray wobbled in her hands as she carried it down the short hallway.

A door creaked open. She slid into the room.

Her mother lay in the bed by the window. The room smelled faintly of cheap air freshner and old blankets. The curtains were drawn.

“Mum,” Eleanor said softly. “Wake up.”

Her mother stirred. Her face was pale, her lips dry. She pushed herself up a little, leaning against the headboard with effort.

“Morning, Lea,” she whispered with a weak smile.

Eleanor smiled. It was automatic. She held the glass to her mother’s lips. Her mother drank in small sips, then took the pills one by one. Eleanor watched her throat move. She counted. One, two, three. The ones for the ulcer. The ones her mother had written down on a piece of paper months ago.

“Eat something,” Eleanor said, breaking a piece of toast and holding it out.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You have to.”

“I’m not hungry, mija.”

Eleanor set the tray down. She kissed her mother’s forehead. It was cool. Too cool.

“I’ll be back.”

She was at the door when the coughing started.

It wasn’t a normal cough. It was wet and sharp and wrong.

“Mum?!”

She spun around. Her mother’s body jerked. She clutched at her chest, eyes wide, trying to speak but only managing a choked sound. Then her eyes rolled back and she went limp.

“MUM‼‼”

Eleanor was already moving. She dropped to her knees, shaking her mother’s shoulders. “No, no, no. Mum, open your eyes. Please.”

There was no response.

She ran out their apartment. Down the hallway, down three flights of stairs barefooted, pounding on the door across from the stairwell.

“Mrs. Nico! Mrs. Nico, please open up!”

The door opened. A middle-aged woman in a robe, hair in curlers. She took one look at Eleanor, wild-eyed and breathless, and her face fell.

“Dios mio. What happened?”

“It’s my mum. She’s not responding to me.”

Mrs. Nico was already reaching for her phone. In ten minutes the stairwell was full of noise. Sirens bounced off the buildings outside. Madrid never slept, but at 7am it still sounded like a wound.

The ambulance ride was a blur. Lights. Oxygen mask. A paramedic asking questions Eleanor couldn’t answer.

The hospital was worse. White halls, running feet, clipboards and shouted names. Eleanor sat in a plastic chair outside a door marked ‘Emergency’and paced around, sat and paced again. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

When the door finally opened, a doctor stepped out. He was young and tired.

“Are you her relative?”

“She’s my mum,” Eleanor said, standing too fast.

The doctor nodded and glanced at his chart.

“How long has she been without proper treatment?”

Eleanor frowned. “I give her her medication every day.”

The doctor’s brow pulled together.

“Every day?”

“Yes.”

“Then how has her kidney function gotten this bad?”

The words didn’t make sense at first. They slid past her.

“Excuse me?” Eleanor’s voice was thin. “Did you say kidney?”

“Yes,” the doctor said gently. “The tests show chronic renal failure. This has been progressing for years.”

Eleanor shook her head. Slow. Like if she moved too fast the floor would fall out.

“No. She said it was an ulcer. She told me what to buy. She wrote it down. She said the doctor in the clinic told her—”

The doctor looked at her with something like pity.

“Señorita, there is no record of an ulcer. There is a record of missed dialysis, of worsening creatinine levels, of a body that’s been shutting down slowly.”

Eleanor couldn’t breathe.

“At this stage,” he continued, “we can’t reverse it with medication. She needs a transplant. Urgently. Without it, she likely won’t make it past this month.”

The hallway went quiet. The noise of the hospital faded out.

“Transplant,” Eleanor repeated. Her mouth was dry. “How much… is it?”

The doctor hesitated.

“About 2.5 million euros. With surgery and aftercare.”

Eleanor staggered back half a step. The wall caught her.

Two point five million. She owed 800 thousand already. She made 900 euros a month cleaning tables and lying to her boss about why she was always late. A job she had up until last night.

“Lea?”

Mrs. Nico was there, holding a paper bag with her mother’s things. Her face fell when she saw Eleanor’s.

“I paid for the tests at reception,” she said quietly. “What did they say?”

Eleanor couldn’t speak. She just stared at the floor, at the scuff marks on her old brown boots. The thought of the bill… 2,500,000 euros burning behind her eyes. Her swelled with tears.