Two nights later, Evelyn would not stop shivering.
It started as a small complaint. A headache after school. She lay on the mattress with a cloth on her forehead, refusing food, saying her bones hurt. Grace, who had seen malaria before, felt her forehead and recoiled. It was burning.
"Ella, bring the thermometer."
"We don't have one."
"Then bring a cold towel."
They sponged her down until midnight, but the fever did not break. Evelyn began to mumble things that made no sense. She called for her father. She said the black car was chasing her.
At two in the morning, Grace wrapped her in a wrapper, lifted her onto her back, and ran.
The nearest clinic was fifteen minutes away on foot. She did it in nine, with Ella running behind, holding her mother's wrapper so she wouldn't lose her.
"Please, please," Grace panted at the front desk. "My daughter. She is burning."
The nurse was calm. Calm in the way people become after seeing the same fear every night. "Bring her in. Sit. We'll test."
The test came back positive. Severe malaria. The doctor said the drip should start immediately, and they would need to keep her overnight, maybe two.
"How much?" Grace asked.
The nurse told her. Admission. Drip. Medication. Lab fees.
It was more than Grace had in her bag. It was more than she had saved, more than she had made that week, more than she could borrow without going back to Madam Harper and sinking even deeper.
"Can I pay part now and part tomorrow?"
"You must deposit before treatment begins." The nurse's voice softened slightly. "I am sorry, Madam. It is the rule."
Grace stood there with her sick child in her arms and a deposit she did not have, and for the first time since Daniel left, she felt something crack inside her. It was not anger. It was not even fear. It was a kind of terrible, quiet helplessness.
Ella tugged her sleeve. "Mama."
"Not now, Ella."
"Mama, look." Ella opened her small, sweaty hand. In it were crumpled notes, the money Daniel had given them, the money Grace had said belonged to the girls. Ella had been keeping it in her school bag.
"I wanted to buy my books with it," she said. "But Evelyn needs it more."
Grace stared at the money. At her ten-year-old daughter, standing in a hospital corridor in the morning, offering everything she had.
She took it with shaking hands. It was not enough. It was close.
She went to the nurse and said, "This is what I have. I will bring the rest by noon. I swear on my life. Please, treat my child."
The nurse looked at the money. Then at Grace's face. Then at the child.
"Wait here," she said, and disappeared down the corridor.
Grace held Evelyn tighter. She did not know whether the nurse was going to help or call security. She did not know how she would find the rest by noon. She only knew she was not leaving that place without her daughter alive.