The next morning, I sit down at the computer and log into Capex. My hands hover over the keyboard. Employment history. Household income. Medical history. The whole story of our displacement laid bare for algorithmic judgment.
This is what survival looks like in the post-natural world: turning your trauma into data points, your persecution into a credit application.
"Look at this," I murmur, pointing at a section of the application. "They want details on why we relocated for treatment."
Marcus leans over my shoulder. "At least they acknowledge it happens. That families like us exist."
As we click through page after page, I'm struck by both the absurdity and the necessity of it all—how trying to become parents has turned into a business pitch, how running from persecution requires a credit check. How hope gets commodified and packaged and sold back to us at interest rates we can barely afford.
"You know what makes me mad?" I say quietly. "That Alabama's law created a whole industry around our desperation. Loan companies, relocation services, legal refugees from our own country."
Marcus wraps an arm around me. "But we're still here. Still fighting. And now we're part of a network that's fighting back."
That word—fighting—settles into my chest and plants something there. Something stubborn and alive. Something that understands the machine doesn't just change our bodies. It changes our consciousness. It makes us part of larger systems of resistance.
I hit submit.
Days pass in careful waiting. Every email notification spikes my anxiety. Every phone ring tightens something in my chest. Then, finally, it comes.
"Marcus!" I shout from the living room, hands shaking. "We got approved!"
He runs in, crouches beside me, and together we read through the email. The approval is there in black and white: interest rate, repayment terms, the total amount—enough for a full IVF cycle, maybe even two attempts. Enough to breathe again. Enough to transform.
Through my connections with Womb Service, I've also been quietly receiving medication donations. Unused hormone injections from women who didn't need their full prescriptions. It won't cover everything, but it'll help offset some costs. This is how communities adapt—sharing resources, building networks, creating economies of care that exist outside official systems.
"This is real," Marcus says, his voice low with wonder. "We've got a real shot. And we're not doing it alone."
I nod, but I don't smile yet. My body remembers disappointment too well. Still, I feel something new underneath the familiar fear: momentum. The sense of being part of something larger than our individual struggle.
"We're really doing this," I whisper.
Marcus pulls me close. "We are. And this time, we're doing it in a state that protects our right to try."
In his arms, I let the tears come. Because it's not just about the money or even the medical treatment. It's about reclaiming our power. It's about building a path forward from the ashes of what Alabama tried to destroy. It's about proving that when they criminalize hope, hope finds new ways to finance itself.
I pull away just enough to look him in the eye. "Let's call Dr. Lopez. It's time."
As I reach for the phone, I feel the shift. We're not at the end. We're not at the beginning. We're in the messy, sacred middle. And finally, we have something we didn't have in Alabama.
Options.
You think this is just about one loan approval? Look closer. This is infrastructure building itself in real time. This is how the future finances its own creation when the present refuses to fund it. This is revolution disguised as customer service, resistance packaged as monthly payments.