Chapter 5: Four Thousand, One Hundred

On Friday at noon, Dylan walked into the lobby of my clinic carrying a gym bag.

I was behind the front desk with a beagle named Biscuit on the scale, and a dozen people in the waiting room.

Camille came in behind him with her phone held up at eye level.

"Hi, everyone," she said brightly, to the lens. "We're doing the right thing today."

The beagle's owner looked from her to me, and then she took out her own phone.

By then I had been on the news twice, and my coworkers had put a sticky note on the break room fridge that said: "Lena Is Allowed To Throw Things."

"Lena," Dylan said. "I told you Friday."

"You did," I said.

He set the gym bag on my desk and unzipped it.

Inside were stacks of small bills held with rubber bands. Ones. Fives. A few tens.

"Count it," he said, and stepped back so Camille could film the bag.

I picked up the first stack, and I started to count out loud.

"One, two, three."

It took a long time.

Nobody in the lobby said a word, and the beagle licked my elbow.

When I reached the end, I lined the stacks up on the desk in rows of five hundred.

"Four thousand, one hundred dollars," I said.

"That's what I had," Dylan said, and shrugged. "Mom's been tied up with the party, and I had to move some things around. It's a good faith payment."

"It's four thousand, one hundred out of forty-one thousand."

"Ten percent!" Camille said, in a cheerful voice. "That's very generous, Lena."

I looked at the phone she was holding.

A tiny red dot was lit on the corner.

"Are you recording this?" I asked.

"We're livestreaming," Camille said. "For the people who care about Dylan's journey."

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