“My father promised to sign the papers tonight,” I said.
“We need the physical document in the billing office, Clara,” he said. “A digital signature will not suffice for this type of institutional waiver.”
“I will bring it to you tomorrow morning,” I said.
George looked at his computer monitor, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.
“The board is very strict about the Friday deadline,” he said. “We have seventy-two graduates in your class, and the final list goes to the printer on Monday.”
“He will sign it,” I said.
“For your sake, I hope so,” George said. “We would hate to see four years of clinical rotations held up over a single signature.”
I picked up the paperwork, folding the blue pages neatly into my leather satchel.
The library door clicked shut behind me, the sound echoing in the empty corridor as I walked back toward the wards.
At six that evening, the smell of roasted garlic and rosemary filled my parents’ kitchen.
My father stood by the granite island, holding a glass of sparkling water with two slices of lime.
I laid the blue loan agreement on the counter between us, the pages crisp and bright under the pendant lights.
“It only requires a single signature on the third page,” I said.
My father tapped his index finger against his leather belt buckle, his gaze fixed on the sink.
“The timing is very difficult, Clara,” he said.
“The deadline is Friday,” I said. “Without the co-signer, the interest rate jumps to fourteen percent.”
He set his glass down, the sound sharp against the stone.
“We have to prioritize the investments that actually show immediate returns, Clara,” he said.
“This is my final semester of medical school,” I said. “My residency starts in July.”
“Tiffany is expanding her online boutique to three new platforms this month,” he said, his voice remaining level and dry. “I cannot risk my credit score with another open line of debt right now.”
