The emergency room at Harborview Medical Center was a study in controlled chaos. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows on the faces of people waiting for care they might not be able to afford.
Marcus sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair, watching the digital clock on the wall tick past midnight while Emma underwent tests in one of the examination rooms.
Ethan had fallen asleep in the chair next to him, his head tilted at an angle that would give him a crick in his neck come morning. At seventeen, he still looked like a kid when he slept, despite everything that had forced him to grow up too fast.
"Mr. Chen?" A tired-looking doctor in scrubs approached, clipboard in hand. Dr. Sarah Martinez looked like she'd been on shift for about twenty hours too long, but her eyes were kind. "I have Emma's test results."
Marcus stood up quickly, careful not to wake Ethan. "How is she?"
"The pneumonia is responding to treatment, but slowly. Her immune system is compromised, probably from stress and poor nutrition. She needs to be admitted for at least three days of IV antibiotics and monitoring."
Relief and panic warred in Marcus's chest. Relief that Emma would get proper care, panic at what three days in the hospital would cost. "Is that absolutely necessary?"
Dr. Martinez studied him with the practiced eye of someone who'd seen too many families forced to choose between health and financial survival. "Mr. Chen, your sister is nineteen years old. At her age, with proper care, pneumonia should clear up quickly. The fact that it's lingering suggests her body is struggling to fight it off. Without proper treatment, this could develop into something much more serious."
"What are we talking about, cost-wise?"
"I can't give you exact numbers, but you're looking at several thousand dollars minimum. More if complications arise." She paused. "Do you have insurance?"
Marcus shook his head. "We lost it when I couldn't afford the premiums."
Dr. Martinez's expression softened. "There are programs that might help. Financial assistance, payment plans. The social worker can meet with you in the morning to discuss options."
Options. Everyone always talked about options, but they never seemed to materialize into actual solutions. Still, Marcus nodded. "Thank you. Can I see her?"
"She's sleeping, but yes. Room 314."
Marcus found Emma in a narrow hospital bed, looking small and fragile against the white sheets. An IV drip fed antibiotics into her arm, and a monitor tracked her vital signs with soft beeping sounds. She looked better already, her breathing easier, but the sight of her hooked up to machines made Marcus's chest tight.
"Hey," she said softly, opening her eyes as he approached. "You look terrible."
"Thanks. That's exactly what every guy wants to hear." Marcus managed a smile as he sat in the visitor's chair. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a truck, but a truck that's giving me really good drugs." Emma's attempt at humor was undermined by how weak her voice sounded. "Marcus, about the cost..."
"Don't worry about it. I told you, I'm handling it."
"How? We both know you don't have this kind of money."
Marcus was quiet for a moment, watching the numbers on her monitor. Heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation... all the metrics that proved she was alive and getting better. "I might have found some work. Better paying than the warehouse."
Emma's eyes sharpened despite her fatigue. "What kind of work?"
"Import/export. Logistics coordination."
"That sounds legitimate."
"It is," Marcus said, which wasn't exactly a lie. Most of what Danny Rodriguez did was probably legitimate.
It was the "probably" part that worried him.
Emma studied his face with the intensity that had always made her a good judge of character. "Marcus, promise me you won't do anything stupid just because of me."
"Define stupid."
"You know what I mean. Don't compromise who you are because you think you have to save us. We'll figure something else out."
But Marcus had already run the numbers a thousand times. There was no "something else." There was only the choice between watching his family fall apart and taking risks he'd never wanted to take.
"Get some rest," he said, standing up. "I'll be back in the morning."
"Where are you going? It's almost one AM."
"I have a meeting."
Emma grabbed his hand with surprising strength. "Marcus..."
"I love you, Em. Both of you. Everything I do is because I love you."
He left before she could respond, knowing that if he stayed any longer, she might talk him out of what he was about to do. And he couldn't afford to be talked out of it. Not anymore.
The drive to Pier 47 took twenty minutes through empty Seattle streets.
The warehouse district was a different world at night; industrial buildings looming like sleeping giants, the occasional security light casting pools of yellow illumination on wet asphalt. The Anchor was exactly what Marcus had expected: a dive bar that catered to dock workers and truck drivers, the kind of place where people minded their own business.
Miguel was waiting outside, smoking a cigarette and checking his phone. "Thought you might not show," he said as Marcus approached.
"Almost didn't."
"How's your sister?"
"She'll be okay. If I can pay for her treatment."
Miguel nodded grimly. "Danny's inside. Fair warning... he's not what you'd expect."
The Anchor's interior was dimly lit and thick with cigarette smoke despite the city's smoking ban. A handful of patrons nursed beers at the bar, while others played pool in the back. Miguel led Marcus to a corner booth where a man in his thirties sat alone, nursing what looked like whiskey.
Danny Rodriguez was nothing like his cousin. Where Miguel was built like a linebacker, Danny was lean and sharp-featured, with intelligent eyes that seemed to catalog everything around him. He wore an expensive suit that looked out of place in the dive bar, and when he stood to shake Marcus's hand, his grip was firm but not aggressive.
"Miguel's told me a lot about you," Danny said as they sat down. "Says you're smart, reliable, good with computers."
"I do okay."
"Modest. I like that." Danny signaled the bartender for another round. "Miguel also says you're in a tough spot financially."
Marcus felt heat rise in his cheeks.
He hated having his desperation laid out so plainly, but there was no point in pretending otherwise. "My sister's in the hospital. We're about to lose our apartment. So yeah, tough spot covers it."
"Family's important," Danny said, and something in his tone suggested he meant it. "I've got two kids myself. Eight and ten. Everything I do is for them."
"What exactly is it that you do?"
Danny smiled. "I move things from one place to another. Sometimes those things need to get there quickly, without a lot of paperwork slowing down the process. Sometimes the people who want those things moved are willing to pay premium prices for speed and discretion."
"What kind of things?"
"Electronics, mostly. High-end stuff. Phones, tablets, laptops. Nothing dangerous, nothing that hurts people. Just merchandise that needs to reach certain markets without getting tangled up in bureaucratic red tape."
Marcus wasn't naive.
He knew Danny was talking about smuggling, probably stolen goods or items being moved to avoid taxes and tariffs. But he also knew that Emma needed medical care and his family needed a home.
"What would you need me to do?"
"Coordinate shipments. Track inventory. Manage databases. Basically, use those logistics skills you've developed at the warehouse, but for better pay." Danny leaned forward. "I'm talking about five thousand dollars for two weeks' work. Cash."
Five thousand dollars.
Enough to pay Emma's hospital bills, catch up on rent, maybe even get their electricity turned back on. All for doing essentially the same work he was already doing, just for different merchandise.
"Is it dangerous?"
"Not if you're smart about it. And Miguel says you're very smart." Danny finished his whiskey. "Look, Marcus, I'm not going to lie to you. This isn't completely legal. But it's not violent, it doesn't hurt innocent people, and it pays well. Sometimes that's the best choice available."
Marcus thought about Emma hooked up to machines, about Ethan's abandoned dreams of art school, about the eviction notice in his pocket. Sometimes the best choice available wasn't a good choice at all.
"When would I start?"
"Tomorrow night. There's a shipment coming in that needs to be processed and redistributed. You'd work with my regular team, learn the system. If it works out, there's more where that came from."
Danny reached into his jacket and pulled out a business card. It looked completely legitimate: "Rodriguez Import/Export Solutions" with a downtown address and phone number. "Think about it tonight. Call me tomorrow if you're interested."
As they left the bar, Miguel walked Marcus to his car. "You okay with this?"
"I don't know if I have a choice."
"There's always a choice, hermano. Sometimes they all just suck."
Marcus drove home through the empty streets, Danny's business card burning a hole in his pocket. When he got back to the apartment, he sat at their tiny kitchen table and did the math one more time. Hospital bills, rent, utilities, food, Emma's medication; it all added up to more money than he could make in six months at the warehouse.
But two weeks with Danny Rodriguez could solve everything.
As the sun began to rise over Seattle, Marcus made his decision. He picked up his phone and dialed the number on the business card.
"Danny? It's Marcus Chen. I'm in."
The old Marcus, the one who always tried to do the right thing, was officially dead. In his place was someone willing to do whatever it took to save his family.
Even if it meant losing himself in the process.