He did not wait to hear another word. He turned and ran toward the village hospital.
Obie burst into the hospital and rushed to the front desk.
“Please, my father, Mr. Raymond—is he here? How is he?” he begged, out of breath.
The receptionist, a kind woman, looked up. “Mr. Raymond? Yes, he is in room three. Are you family?”
“I’m his son, Obie,” he said, already moving in the direction she pointed.
He found his father’s room. His father lay on the bed with his eyes closed. Obie felt both joy and sorrow as he looked at him again. He gently touched his father’s hand.
“Father, it’s me, Obie.”
Just then, a doctor walked in, a woman with a serious face. She looked at him.
“Are you related to this man?” she asked gently.
“Yes, I’m his son, Obie. How is he, Doctor? What’s wrong with him?” Obie asked, his voice full of worry.
The doctor sighed.
“Your father is very ill, Obie. His condition is serious. He needs surgery—an expensive one—to remove something blocking his body and to undo the effects of what appears to be a strong poison. Without it, I’m afraid he may not survive the week.”
“An expensive surgery?” Obie repeated, thinking of the plastic bag hidden beneath the baobab tree.
Without hesitation, he looked the doctor straight in the eye.
“I will pay for it, Doctor. Whatever the cost. Please tell me how much it is, and I will pay.”
The doctor was surprised. She looked at the small boy in old clothes, tired and dusty, and could hardly believe what she was hearing.
“My boy,” she said gently, “this surgery costs a great deal of money. It is more than most families can afford. Are you sure you understand? We are talking about a very large amount.”
Obie did not look away. He spoke again, his voice calm and full of quiet confidence.
“Yes, Doctor, I understand. And I will pay it. Please, just give me the bank account number where I can deposit the money.”
