“What year?”
“Eight years ago.”
“February.”
“Cold as hell.”
He smiled at the memory despite everything.
“My daughter weighed six pounds and somehow scared every adult in the hospital.”
Victoria’s mind moved backward.
Eight years.
February.
Emergency-transfer expansion.
That had been the first year she personally chaired the rapid-assistance committee.
Her mother was still alive then.
Victoria had been twenty-four.
Angry at how slowly the foundation moved.
She had spent months convincing trustees to create a fund that allowed hospital social workers to approve emergency family expenses without waiting for monthly board meetings.
The fund had nearly been rejected.
Too easy to misuse.
Too difficult to audit.
Too small to create “transformational impact.”
Victoria remembered one winter night.
A pediatric hospital social worker called after midnight because an infant needed transfer and the parents were stranded between insurance authorization systems.
Victoria had authorized discretionary transport support herself.
She had forgotten the family’s name.
She remembered the circumstances.
Surely not.
Hundreds of families had used the program.
She looked at the man.
“What happened after?”
“Surgery.”
“Then another six months later.”
“She’s good now.”
“Cardiology every year.”
“She plays soccer badly.”
“Runs everywhere.”
“Argues professionally.”
Victoria smiled.
“And after that you started donating?”
The man froze.
Victoria did too.
She had not meant to say it.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“What?”
She felt heat rise beneath her collar.
“I assumed.”
“Because people give back after something like that.”
The man’s gaze moved toward the papers on the table.
Then back to her.
“Sometimes.”
Victoria realized she had become too interested.
She backed away.
“Sorry.”
“No.”
“It’s okay.”
He lifted the cold coffee.
Drank.
Made a face.
“Awful now.”
She smiled.
“Your own fault.”
“I’ve been distracted.”
He began gathering his papers.
A folded white receipt slipped from the folder.
It floated onto the floor near Victoria’s boot.
She leaned down.
“I’ve got it.”
“So do I.”
Too late.
Victoria picked it up.
Her eyes landed on the printed header before she could politely look away.
SINCLAIR CHILDREN’S MEDICAL FOUNDATION.
Recurring contribution confirmation.
$35.00.
Monthly.
Donor status:
96 CONSECUTIVE MONTHS.
Daniel Foster.
Victoria stared.
The man reached for the receipt.
She did not release it immediately.
“Eight years.”
His expression changed.
Victoria looked from the paper to him.
“You’ve donated every month for eight years?”
His discomfort became almost physical.
“It’s not much.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He took the paper gently.
“Most months, yes.”
“Every month according to this.”
He folded it once.
“You keep count?”
“The system does.”
Victoria heard herself becoming too intense.
He noticed.
“You really do work with them.”
“Yes.”
“How closely?”
Before she could answer, her phone vibrated.
She looked down.
Her foundation finance director.
Three messages.
WE FOUND THE LONG-RUN DONOR PROFILE YOU ASKED ABOUT.