He sat down, adjusting his glasses, and spread a single sheet of paper on the table between us, covering my coffee cup’s shadow.
“I wanted to talk to you about a new clinical trial we are launching next week,” he said, using his pen to point at a block of small print near the bottom of the page. “It is a targeted therapy that fits Ben’s specific cellular markers.”
“We cannot afford another experimental treatment, Dr. Paulson,” I said. “Our insurance is already tapped out from the initial admission, and the estate is still in probate.”
“That is the beauty of this program,” Paulson said, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a low, reassuring murmur that felt entirely too practiced. “The pharmaceutical sponsor covers every dollar of his future hospitalization, medication, and specialized care.”
He pushed the paper toward me, along with his heavy gold pen.
“All I need is your signature on this standard clinical trial waiver so we can secure his bed in the research wing.”
I looked at the legal jargon, my eyes scanning the dense paragraphs about liability, experimental protocols, and the release of claims against the hospital.
“Is it safe?” I asked, my hand hovering over the paper.
“There are always risks with advanced oncology protocols,” Paulson said, his pen resuming its rhythmic tap against the clipboard. “But the alternative is standard palliative care, which will offer very little systemic efficacy at this stage.”
I picked up the pen, the heavy gold metal cool against my fingers.
If I signed this, the hospital would take over the bills, and the constant threat of the eighty-five-thousand-dollar inheritance being drained would vanish.
“Does this release the hospital from responsibility if something goes wrong during the trial?” I asked, catching a word in the third paragraph.
“It is standard administrative language, Clara,” Paulson said, his smile remaining perfectly fixed. “Simply a formality to ensure the trial sponsors are protected from unrelated medical events.”
I hovered the pen over the signature line, thinking of Ben’s face when he gave me the box, thinking of the quiet relief of having the financial burden lifted from my shoulders.
“I should probably show this to Gary first,” I said, my hand stopping.
“The deadline for enrollment is five o’clock today,” Paulson said, his tone tightening slightly. “If we miss this window, the slot goes to a patient on the waiting list in Cleveland, and we cannot guarantee his current bed.”
I looked at the signature line, then back at Paulson’s face, noticing the slight twitch in his jaw as he waited for me to write my name.
“Let me read it through one more time,” I said, setting the pen down on the table.
Paulson’s smile vanished, and he slowly pulled the folder back toward his side of the table, his fingers clamping onto the edge of the paper.
“Of course,” he said, his voice clipped. “Just keep in mind that time is our enemy here, and delaying could cost him everything.”
I left the cafeteria and walked back up to the third floor, my fingers cold against my sides as I walked.
When I entered Room 312, Ben was alone again, the therapist gone, and his lunch tray sitting untouched on the overbed table.
