🔹 PART 7 – “What Can’t Be Bought”
On Monday morning, Ray McKinney stood at the edge of the Marlow town clinic parking lot, gripping his cane harder than he needed to.
He hadn’t seen the inside of a doctor’s office in over twenty years.
Not since his wife left.
Not since the bills came faster than he could fix things.
Jenna parked beside him and turned off the engine. “You ready?”
Ray stared at the brick building with its peeling trim and flickering ‘OPEN’ sign.
“Nope,” he muttered.
Jenna smiled softly. “That’s okay. We’ll go anyway.”
Inside, the waiting room smelled of antiseptic and coffee. A young mom bounced a toddler on her knee. An older man in overalls filled out forms at the check-in counter, grumbling to himself.
Ray shifted awkwardly on the vinyl chair while Jenna handled the paperwork at the window.
“Name?” the clerk asked.
“Raymond McKinney.”
“Date of birth?”
“March 12, 1952.”
“Insurance provider?”
Jenna leaned in. “Applying for Medicaid. We submitted the forms last week. Confirmation number’s right here.”
The clerk nodded. “We’ve got you flagged. Slide scale visit today. Doctor will be with you shortly.”
Ray blinked. “Slide what?”
“Sliding scale,” Jenna said. “They base the cost on your income.”
Ray nodded slowly, as if absorbing a language he never expected to speak.
The exam room was small, but clean. The doctor—mid-forties, kind eyes, sleeves rolled—took his time.
Ray winced as he climbed onto the table, hating how slow it all felt. The man who used to lift full sheets of drywall now had to lean on his daughter just to sit straight.
“Your hip’s got advanced arthritis,” the doctor said after the exam. “Bone-on-bone in places. Likely from years of wear.”
Ray grunted. “I earned every crack.”
“I don’t doubt that,” the doctor smiled. “But the pain’s not going away on its own.”
“So what are we talking—surgery?”
The doctor nodded. “Eventually. But we can try corticosteroid shots to manage pain for now. Physical therapy, too. With the Medicaid application in progress, we’ll keep costs minimal until you’re fully covered.”
Ray didn’t like the word covered. It sounded like hiding.
But he nodded. “I’ll think on it.”
“I know it’s a lot,” the doctor said. “But you’ve still got years ahead, Mr. McKinney. You should live them without this much pain.”
Ray looked at Jenna.
She smiled gently.
“We’ve got time now,” she said.
On the way home, they stopped at the diner just off Main Street. The booths were patched with duct tape and the coffee came in mismatched mugs, but the grilled cheese tasted like childhood.
Ray dunked his into tomato soup and chewed slowly. “Feels like I should’ve done all this years ago.”
“You weren’t ready,” Jenna said.
“I wasn’t allowed,” he corrected. “Men like me… we didn’t ask for help. We just kept fixing other people’s things and let ours fall apart.”
Jenna stirred her coffee. “Well, you’re allowed now. And you’re not alone.”
Ray looked at her. “Don’t you ever feel like… you missed something? By leaving?”
She paused.
“Yes,” she said softly. “But I think I’ve been trying to earn it back.”
Ray chuckled. “You already did, the moment you came home.”
Later that afternoon, they returned to the house.
It still smelled faintly of damp wood and sawdust, but the new subfloor was in. Ray had cut each piece by hand, despite Jenna’s offer to rent power tools. She patched drywall while he rebuilt the trim.
Bear followed them from room to room, walking stronger now, though still limping a little.
“Think he’ll ever run again?” Jenna asked.
“Maybe,” Ray said, “but even if he doesn’t, he’s here. That’s what matters.”
As the sun dipped behind the trees, they stood on the front porch—the new one, rebuilt from old beams they salvaged.
“You think insurance will approve the appeal?” Ray asked.
Jenna shrugged. “Hard to say. But I filed it with your estimate attached. Told them the labor was family-supplied.”
“You didn’t mention it was retired-laborer-with-a-bad-hip labor, did you?”
She grinned. “Figured they wouldn’t cover ‘love and grit’ anyway.”
Ray laughed, long and warm.
That night, they lit candles on the back porch and sat with Bear between them.
Fireflies blinked in the distance. Crickets sang low.
Jenna held her mug close. “I used to think success was a title. An office. A paycheck. But none of that held up when the water came.”
Ray took a sip of his tea. “Water teaches us what lasts.”
Jenna looked out into the yard.
“Do you think Mom would be proud of what we’ve built?”
Ray didn’t answer right away.
“She might not say it,” he said slowly. “But I think she’d feel it.”
Jenna nodded.
“And I’m proud of you,” he added.
She blinked back tears.
“You mean that?”
“I mean every word.”
The next morning, Ray received a letter.
From the state.
Approved. Medicaid coverage effective immediately.
He held the envelope like it might vanish.
It wasn’t just health care. It was dignity. It was a door finally opening after a lifetime of patching holes.
When Jenna saw it, she clapped and hugged him tight.
He let her.
Later that week, they began working on the bedroom—installing new windows, repainting the walls.
Jenna turned to him mid-brushstroke and said, “After we finish, you should think about building again. Fixing things for other folks. People trust you.”
Ray paused, then smiled.
“Maybe I will. But this time, not for money. Just because I can.”
She nodded.
“That sounds like the kind of fixer the world still needs.”