adbindia Chapter 305 - 151: Who is Opposing "Made in America"?
Chapter 305 - 151: Who is Opposing "Made in America"?
"What’s wrong, Hart?"
His wife poked her head out of the kitchen, holding their two-year-old daughter. A pot of cheap macaroni was boiling on the stove.
"Did you get paid? The landlord came by earlier. He said if we don’t pay by tonight, he’s changing the locks on Monday."
Hart looked up at his wife’s face.
He wanted to lie. He wanted to say the banking system was down, that it would be fixed by tomorrow.
But he couldn’t.
"There’s no money."
Hart’s voice sounded like it was squeezed from between his teeth.
"The factory said Pittsburgh hasn’t paid. The accounts are frozen."
"What?" The spoon in his wife’s hand fell into the pot. "But... but they promised! That Mayor, that guy Leo, he promised on TV!"
"Promises are worthless!"
Hart slammed his phone down on the bed.
"He’s a liar! A complete and utter liar!"
"He’s playing us for fools! All that talk about revitalization, about being ’worker brothers,’ and in the end, he can’t even pay our basic wages!"
"I’m selling the car tomorrow!"
Hart clutched his head, his fingers digging into his hair as he let out a pained whimper.
"But if we sell the car, how many days will that last us? What about next week? The week after that?"
From the next room, the sound of something heavy hitting the wall could be heard.
It was an old worker, letting out his frustration.
"Those bastards in Pittsburgh aren’t human!"
The old man’s roar pierced through the thin walls.
"I’ve worked my whole damn life and never seen anything so shameless! They tricked us onto the boat and then scuttled it!"
"I’m going to sue them! I’m going to smash up their city hall!"
Despair spread through the community like a plague.
For these American families, "savings" was a distant concept.
They lived paycheck to paycheck, some even week to week.
Their lives were built on a fragile cash flow.
Once that flow was broken, even for a single week...
...life would plummet from barely getting by straight into an irrecoverable hell.
No buffer. No retreat.
Only a raw survival crisis.
...
In the emergency room of Pittsburgh General Hospital, a nauseating smell hung in the air.
This place was the city’s sewer drain.
All the violence, poverty, accidents, and despair eventually converged here, fermenting in this vast container of white tiles and fluorescent lights.
Leo passed through the automatic doors and entered this chaotic world.
He wore a dark casual jacket, the collar turned up to hide half his face.
Ethan followed behind him, carrying a fruit basket.
Just yesterday, two workers had been lightly injured while demolishing an old warehouse at the port construction site.
Although the Union had already arranged for compensation, Leo felt he had to make an appearance in person.
As the Mayor, Leo needed to project a responsible image.
He needed this kind of "man of the people" material to fill the pages of tomorrow morning’s paper, and he also wanted a temporary escape from the suffocating bad news in his city hall office.
News about the frozen funds, complaints from allies, and the ever-tightening net from Harrisburg.
The emergency room was packed.
There were no appointments here, only waiting.
People sat in hard plastic chairs or lay directly on gurneys, lining both sides of the hall’s corridors.
Some clutched bleeding foreheads, others pressed on abdomens wracked with pain, and a few homeless people were curled up in corners, sleeping in the warmth.
Leo pulled his hat down low, trying to walk quickly through the area and head straight for the inpatient department.
Just as he was passing the triage desk, a suppressed, pleading voice made him stop.
Leo turned his head.
In a corner to the side of the triage desk, a middle-aged woman was gripping the edge of the marble countertop for dear life.
Her hair was a mess, her eyes were puffy, and she looked like a piece of paper that life had crumpled up.
Next to her was a wheelchair, and in it sat a boy of about twelve or thirteen.
The boy’s left leg was wrapped in a crude bandage, through which dark red blood had seeped.
His face was pale, his forehead slick with cold sweat. His body twitched slightly from the pain, and intermittent groans escaped his lips.
"Please, I’m begging you."
The middle-aged woman’s voice was thick with tears.
"Just give him some painkillers, even one pill would be enough. Or just let him see a doctor. His bone might be dislocated, he can’t stand the pain."
The nurse sitting behind the triage desk didn’t even look up.
She stared at her computer screen, fingers tapping on the keyboard, her face wearing a mask of indifference and numbness forged by long years of working in the ER.
"Ma’am, I’ve already told you," the nurse repeated mechanically. "The system shows that your husband, the policyholder for this child, has an inactive medical insurance policy."
"It can’t be inactive!" the woman argued frantically. "He’s worked at the factory for twenty years! They’ve deducted the insurance premiums every single month! He’s never missed a payment!"
"That’s what the system shows."
The nurse turned her monitor and pointed to a line of red text.
"Due to non-payment of premiums for two consecutive months by the insuring entity—Erie United Steel Company—this account has been frozen by the insurance company. And..."
The nurse paused, as if even she found the next words to be a bit cruel.
"There’s a note in the system. Because of that previous incident—the workers’ compensation dispute involving your husband—the insurance company is currently refusing to cover any medical expenses for members of this family."
"It’s a risk-control lock."
"We’re a hospital, not a charity clinic, ma’am," the nurse’s voice was flat. "If you want him to see an orthopedic specialist or get a prescription for painkillers, you’ll need to go to the payment office and make a deposit of five hundred US dollars first."