“You are severely malnourished,” he said. “You need treatment and observation. This cannot wait.”

For the first time in five years, I thought about the card without anger. I told myself that survival mattered more than pride. Three hundred dollars would at least buy me time.

The next morning, I went to a downtown bank branch. My hands shook as I slid the card across the counter to a teller who could not have been older than my youngest grandchild.

“I would like to withdraw the full balance,” I said quietly.

She typed for a long moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as she stared at the screen. Then she looked up at me, surprise softening her professional smile.