En Dios Confiamos

The vinyl booth cracked against Elena's back as she shifted, the sound mixing with the diner's constant hum of fluorescent lights and distant traffic. Carlos drummed his fingers on the Formica table, a rhythm she recognized from their wedding night twelve years ago when he couldn't sleep.

"Are you there, God? It's me, Carlos." His voice carried that particular blend of reverence and rebellion that made her stomach tighten. "We haven't spoken in a while, not since Maria stole the communion wafers."

"¡Cállate, Carlos!" Elena hissed, glancing around the nearly empty diner. "That's not funny."

"No, seriously, God—" Carlos leaned forward, his wedding ring clicking against his coffee cup. "The way that little vieja just palmed those wafers like she was dealing cards in Vegas. You saw it too, right? Even You had to appreciate the technique."

Elena pressed her rosary beads between her thumb and forefinger, the familiar ridges worn smooth from years of worry. The same beads she'd clutched in the oncology waiting room three months ago when Dr. Martinez had used words like "aggressive" and "experimental" and "seventy thousand dollars."

"Don't drag el Señor into your blasphemy. We have enough problems without You listening to him mock Your house."

The fluorescent light above their booth flickered, casting intermittent shadows across Carlos's face. He'd aged decades in the weeks since Isabella had collapsed during soccer practice, her sixteen-year-old body betraying her with cells that multiplied like prayers no one was answering.

"Problems." Carlos laughed, but the sound shattered like glass. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

"What would you prefer? Una catástrofe? Una pesadilla?" Elena's voice dropped to a whisper. "Because that's what this is, Carlos. A nightmare we can't wake up from."

The waitress approached with a coffee pot, her orthopedic shoes squeaking against the checkered linoleum. Carlos waved her away with such force that she stumbled backward, coffee sloshing onto her apron.

"¡Dios mío!" Elena reached out apologetically. "I'm sorry, señora. We're just—"

"Having a discussion," Carlos finished, his voice dead calm now, which was somehow worse than the anger.

The waitress mumbled something about refills and retreated to safety behind the counter. Elena watched her go, envying anyone whose worst problem was spilled coffee and rude customers.

"Remember when our biggest fight was about you leaving wet towels on the bed?" Elena's laugh came out strangled. "I thought that was the end of the world."

"You threw my boots out the window."

"They were muddy." Her voice cracked. "God, Carlos, they were just muddy boots. And I was so angry about something so stupid, and now—" She couldn't finish. Now Isabella couldn't even walk to the bathroom without help.

"And now look at us." Carlos's hands shook as he lifted his coffee. "Sitting here planning to become everything we raised her not to be."

The bell above the diner's entrance chimed as a trucker in a faded John Deere cap shuffled toward the counter. Elena watched him order pie and coffee, her heart breaking for his simple concerns about highway routes and delivery schedules.

"Miguel's friend," she said suddenly. "The one with the connections. What exactly did he say about the cameras?"

Carlos startled at the shift. "Elena—"

"What did he say?"

"Digital system. Feeds to a monitoring company, but there's a thirty-second delay in the transmission." Carlos's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "And they cycle the hard drives every seventy-two hours."

"Enough time?"

"More than enough, if we stick to the plan."

Elena's rosary beads clicked faster, a staccato rhythm of desperation. She'd been praying for a miracle for three months. Maybe this was it. Maybe miracles just looked different than she'd expected.

"The experimental treatment," she said. "Dr. Martinez was very specific about the timeline, wasn't he?"

Carlos's jaw clenched. He'd memorized every word from that consultation. "Six weeks maximum before the window closes. After that, the tumors will be too advanced for the immunotherapy to work."

"And today is?"

"Tuesday, August first."

"Which gives us until..."

"September twelfth." Carlos set down his cup with deliberate precision. "Forty-two days."

The number hung between them like a death sentence, which Elena supposed it was.

"Tell me again what Miguel said about his friend's success rate."

"Elena, don't do this to yourself."

"Tell me."

Carlos closed his eyes. "Eighty-seven percent clean getaways over the past five years. The other thirteen percent were caught due to complications beyond their control."

"Define complications."

"Silent alarms they weren't told about. Off-duty cops making deposits. Traffic accidents during the escape route." Carlos opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. "Things we can't predict or prevent."

Elena nodded, calculating odds the way she'd calculated Isabella's chances of making it to Christmas, to her seventeenth birthday, to graduation. The math was always brutal, but at least it was honest.

"What about after? When you're gone?"

The question Carlos had been dreading. "Miguel says three to five years, maybe less with cooperation and good behavior."

"Isabella would be in college by then." Elena's voice was steady, matter-of-fact. "If she lives that long."

"¡No digas eso!" Carlos slammed his palm against the table, making their coffee cups jump. "Don't say it like that!"

The trucker at the counter glanced over, and Elena smiled apologetically before turning back to her husband. Carlos was breathing hard, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"Like what?" she said softly. "Like the truth? The doctors were very clear, mi amor. Without the treatment, she has maybe four months. With it, she might see twenty-five."

"Which is why we're here."

"Which is why you're here. I'm just trying to figure out how to survive what comes after."

Carlos leaned back against the booth, deflated. "That's not fair."

"Fair?" Elena's voice rose before she caught herself, glancing around the empty diner. "Fair would be having insurance that covers experimental treatments. Fair would be having parents who could help instead of parents we send money to every month. Fair would be living in a world where loving your daughter doesn't require destroying your soul."

The fluorescent light above them flickered again, longer this time, and Elena took it as a sign. Not from God—she'd stopped looking for signs from God—but from the universe that time was running out.

"My grandmother used to say that God never gives you more than you can handle," she continued, her voice gaining strength. "I used to find comfort in that. Now I think it's just something people say when they can't imagine your problems."

"Elena—"

"No, let me finish." She held up her hand, and Carlos fell silent. "Because I've been thinking about this every night while Isabella sleeps, and I need to say it out loud. I think God gives you exactly as much as you can handle and then He gives you a little more. Just to see who you really are when everything else gets stripped away."

Carlos studied her face, seeing something new there, something hardened and desperate and absolutely certain. "And who are we?"

"We're about to find out."

Elena pulled out her phone, checking the time. 9:47 PM. Miguel's friend was expecting an answer by midnight. The branch bank on Fifth Street opened at nine tomorrow morning. Isabella's next appointment with Dr. Martinez was Thursday, when they'd discuss hospice care if they couldn't come up with the money.

"The monitoring company," she said. "How far away?"

"Twelve minutes across town. But Elena, you're talking like this is already decided."

"Isn't it?" She looked up from her phone. "Miguel's friend is expecting an answer tonight. The bank processes wire transfers every Tuesday morning. Isabella's appointment is Thursday." She met his eyes. "The math isn't complicated, Carlos."

"The math doesn't account for prison sentences and destroyed lives."

"The math doesn't account for dead daughters either."

The words hit Carlos like a physical blow. Elena immediately reached for his hand, her anger dissolving into something softer but no less determined.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "But I can't pretend anymore. I can't sit in that hospital room and smile while they explain comfort care and pain management. I can't watch our baby girl give up because we couldn't find a way to save her."

Carlos felt something break inside his chest, a sound like ice cracking on a winter lake. "When I was inside before, you know what kept me going?"

Elena shook her head.

"The idea that I'd never have to be that person again. That I'd found something worth staying clean for." His voice cracked. "You and Isabella were my redemption, Elena. My proof that God could forgive anything."

"Maybe this is your redemption too."

"Robbing banks?"

"Saving your daughter."

The waitress reappeared with fresh coffee, moving carefully around their table like she was approaching wild animals. Elena smiled her thanks, and the woman hurried away.

"What if I can't do it?" Carlos asked. "What if I freeze up or panic or—"

"Then we lose everything." Elena's voice carried no judgment, just simple truth. "But if you don't try, we lose everything anyway."

She reached into her purse and pulled out a folded paper, smoothing it on the table between them. Carlos recognized it immediately—the treatment protocol Dr. Martinez had printed out, with the cost breakdown highlighted in yellow. Seventy thousand dollars for six rounds of immunotherapy, plus hospital stays, plus monitoring, plus medications.

"Look at it," Elena said. "Really look at it."

Carlos stared at the paper, seeing not just numbers but weeks of Isabella's life measured in dollars they didn't have. Each line item represented hope they couldn't afford.

"Miguel's friend," Elena continued, "what did he say about the typical take from a branch like Fifth Street?"

"Elena, don't—"

"What did he say?"

Carlos sighed. "Eighty to ninety thousand on a Tuesday morning, after the weekend deposits get processed."

"More than enough."

"If everything goes perfectly."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then I go back to prison and Isabella dies anyway."

The brutal honesty of it hit them both like a slap. Elena closed her eyes, seeing her daughter's face from this morning—pale but determined, still talking about junior year, still believing in tomorrows that might not come.

"You know what Isabella asked me yesterday?" Elena said, her voice barely audible. "She asked if she was going to die because we couldn't afford to save her."

Carlos's breath caught. "What did you tell her?"

"I told her that her parents would move heaven and earth before we'd let that happen." Elena opened her eyes, meeting his gaze directly. "I need to not be a liar, Carlos."

The diner felt smaller now, the walls pressing in around them. Carlos looked at his wife—really looked at her—and saw not just the woman he'd married but the woman she was becoming. Harder. More desperate. Willing to sacrifice anything for their child.

"Miguel's friend," he said slowly. "He knows we need the money quickly. He doesn't know why."

"Good. The fewer people who know about Isabella, the better."

"He said the branch manager usually arrives around 8:30, opens the vault by 8:45."

"Security guards?"

"One. Usually reading the newspaper in his car until the manager waves him inside."

Elena nodded, processing this like she was planning a grocery shopping trip instead of a felony. "And after? When you're arrested?"

"I keep my mouth shut. Take the plea deal. Serve my time."

"And I tell Isabella that her father was willing to risk everything to save her life."

They sat in silence for a moment, both understanding that they'd crossed some invisible line. There was no going back to the people they'd been an hour ago.

Carlos pulled out his phone, scrolling to Miguel's number. His finger hovered over the call button.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "Really sure you can live with this?"

Elena was quiet for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the treatment protocol still spread between them. When she finally spoke, her voice carried the weight of absolute certainty.

"I can live with anything as long as Isabella lives too."

Carlos nodded, understanding that this was both an answer and a commitment. He pressed the call button, listening to it ring once, twice, three times.

"Miguel, it's Carlos." He paused, meeting Elena's eyes across the table. "We're in."

As he hung up, Elena carefully folded the treatment protocol and put it back in her purse. Then she raised her coffee cup in a small toast.

"To Isabella."

"To Isabella," Carlos echoed, clinking his cup against hers.

They sat in silence for another few minutes, both understanding that this was the end of something and the beginning of something else entirely. Finally, Carlos stood and pulled out his wallet, leaving a twenty-dollar tip for their four-dollar bill.

"Ready to go home?" he asked.

Elena gathered her purse and rosary, then stood beside him. "Actually," she said, "I think I want to stop at the church first. Light a candle."

"For what?"

Elena looked out the window at the empty street, then back at her husband. "For guidance. And forgiveness. In advance."

They walked toward the door together, leaving behind the familiar comfort of their booth for the uncertain territory that lay ahead. As they reached the entrance, Elena paused, her hand on the door handle.

"Carlos?"

"Sí, mi amor?"

"Tomorrow morning, when you walk into that bank..." She turned to face him fully. "Remember that you're not doing this for money. You're doing it for love."

Carlos cupped her face in his hands, seeing his own desperation reflected in her eyes. "En Dios confiamos?"

"En Dios confiamos," she whispered back.

They stepped out into the night together, their footsteps echoing off the empty pavement. Behind them, the diner's neon sign flickered against the darkness, casting intermittent light on the street where their old life ended and their new one began.

In the distance, a church bell chimed ten o'clock, and Elena clutched her rosary tighter, praying for the strength to become the person her daughter needed her to be.