There is no way—absolutely no rational, mathematical way—Clara can afford Mercy General.

Yet, every single month for the last three years, the same impossible scene plays out. Clara goes to the discharge desk with trembling hands, clutching her worn leather purse like a shield against the inevitable blow. The billing clerk, a heavy-set woman named Brenda who has seen it all, frowns at her monitor. She taps the keyboard, squinting.

“It happened again,” Brenda would say, her voice flat.

“What happened?” Clara would ask, her voice barely a whisper, terrified that this was the moment the trapdoor would open.

“System error,” Brenda would mutter, spinning the screen around. “Look. Balance due: $0.00. Code: CHARITY_OVERRIDE_ALPHA.”

Clara would cry. Every single time. She would cover her mouth, look up at the fluorescent ceiling tiles, and whisper prayers to a God she believed was hacking the hospital mainframe just for her.