Page 21 of Run Omega Run
Before either of us could respond, she turned her attention back to me, and I saw the familiar storm clouds gathering in her expression. "Now then, Heather, I want to know exactly how much this little adventure is going to cost, and I want you to promise me you won't throw away money we don't have trying to keep a dying woman comfortable when children need food and clothes and—"
"Mom, please," I said, tears already starting to blur my vision. "Can we not talk about money right now? You're alive, you're breathing better, and that's all that matters."
"That is not all that matters," she said with the steel I remembered from childhood, when she'd had to make impossible decisions about how to stretch resources that were never adequate for the number of children who needed care. "Those children depend on you to make smart choices about—"
The door opened again, interrupting her lecture, and Bennett stepped into the room with the kind of quiet confidence that immediately changed the atmosphere. His presence filled the small space, commanding attention without demanding it.
"Mrs..." He paused, realizing he didn't know her last name.
"Eleanor" Mom said, studying this new arrival with the same intensity she'd applied to Dante.
"Eleanor," Bennett repeated, inclining his head slightly. "I wanted you to know that you don't need to worry about the cost of your treatment. It’s taken care of."
The words hung in the air like something that couldn't possibly be real. I stared at Bennett, trying to process what he'd just said, trying to understand how a stranger could simply make a hospital bill disappear.
"What do you mean?" I whispered.
Bennett's eyes met mine, steady and sure. "I mean you can focus on taking care of your mother and your children without worrying about money. Everything else is handled."
And somehow, looking into those dark eyes, I believed him completely.
The door opened again before I could fully process Bennett's promise, and this time Cole appeared with Angus behind him. Suddenly the small hospital room felt crowded, but not uncomfortably so. There was something about having all four of them in the same space that created a sense of completeness, as if pieces of a puzzle were finally clicking into place.
Cole stepped forward first to introduce himself, his dark clothing making him look like a shadow against the white walls. "Cole," he said simply, extending his hand to her with the same careful gentleness I'd seen him use in the waiting area. "I work with the hospital staff sometimes. I wanted to make sure you were getting the best care possible."
"And I'm Angus," the bigger man said, his Scottish accent warming the sterile air. "Cannae tell ye how glad I am tae see ye looking better than when we brought ye in."
Mom shook each of their hands in turn, her grip stronger than it had been in weeks, her eyes sharp as she assessed these strangers who had inserted themselves into our crisis. "I don't know how to thank you all," she said, her voice carrying the impact of someone who'd spent decades learning to be grateful for kindness while being careful not to expect too much of it.
"You don't need to thank us," Bennett said, positioning himself near the foot of her bed with the kind of natural authority that suggested he was accustomed to being the one others looked to for decisions. "This is what people do for each other."
"But we're strangers to you," Mom protested, and I could see the familiar worry starting to creep into her expression. "You don't owe us anything, and I don't want to be a burden—"
"You're not strangers," Dante interrupted gently, his marshmallow scent mixing with the others to create something that made my chest feel warm and tight. "Not anymore."
The air in the room was becoming thick with their combined scents—peppermint sharp and clean from Bennett, melted marshmallows sweet and comforting from Dante, chocolate cake rich and indulgent from Angus, and something darker from Cole that reminded me of toffee and autumn afternoons. Each scent was distinct, but together they created a combination that made my pulse quicken and my skin feel sensitized to every small movement.
I found myself breathing deeper without meaning to, trying to process the way their individual essences seemed to complement each other, creating harmonies I hadn't known were possible. It was like listening to a chorus where each voice was beautiful on its own, but together they created somethingthat made my Omega instincts sit up and take notice in ways I'd been trained to ignore.
"You're all very kind," Mom said, but I could see her fighting against the exhaustion that was trying to pull her back down into sleep. "And generous. But I've spent my whole life taking care of myself and Heather, and our children. I don't know how to accept help like this."
"Maybe it's time to learn," Cole said, while quietly smiling. "Sometimes accepting help is the bravest thing you can do."
Before Mom could respond, Dr. Patterson knocked on the doorframe and entered with the same manila folder she'd carried earlier. Her expression was professionally neutral, but I could see the slight tension around her eyes that suggested the news she carried wasn't going to be what we wanted to hear.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," she said, nodding acknowledgment to the men who stepped back slightly to give her space near Mom's bed. "But I wanted to discuss the results of your afternoon tests and talk about next steps."
The warmth that had been building in the room suddenly felt fragile, as if bad news might shatter it completely. I tightened my grip on Mom's hand, feeling the delicate bones beneath skin that had grown too thin.
"The IV fluids helped reduce the immediate crisis," Dr. Patterson continued, opening her folder to reveal more test results. "But I need you to understand that this is a temporary improvement. The underlying condition hasn't changed."
"What does that mean exactly?" Bennett asked, his voice carrying the kind of directness that cut through medical euphemisms.
Dr. Patterson looked at him, then at Mom, seeming to assess how much plain speaking the situation could bear. "It means we're looking at palliative care now. Comfort measures.Medications to help with breathing and pain, but not treatments aimed at curing the underlying disease."
The words settled over us like a heavy blanket, muffling the sound of monitors beeping and footsteps in the hallway. I'd known this was coming. Had seen it in the way Mom struggled for breath, in the blood that came up when she coughed, in the way she seemed to be disappearing a little more each day. But hearing it stated so clinically made it real in a way that observation hadn't.
"How long?" I asked, my body rigid.
