Chapter 3

Ever since I returned from the hospital, I'd been living like a tightly wound machine. I spent my days buried in test prep at school and my nights killing myself over chores at home.

I was severely sleep-deprived. I could only catch up on rest during the ten-minute breaks between classes or memorize a couple of vocabulary words on my way to the restroom.

My teacher, Gretchen Moyer, called me in for a talk. She gazed at the dark rings under my eyes, deeply concerned.

"Emily, you haven't been yourself lately. Your mock exam scores have dropped out of the top 50 in your grade. If this continues, you might not even make it to a first-tier college. Is something going on at home?"

I shook my head and forced a smile that felt more painful than crying.

"No, Ms. Moyer. I just haven't been studying efficiently."

I didn't dare to tell her the truth. I was terrified that if I spoke up, Ms. Moyer would make a home visit and talk to Mom.

That would only convince Mom that I'd been "telling tales" and shaming her. She would take all that frustration and turn it into even more chores and more bills for me to pay.

I clutched my dismal report card until my knuckles turned white.

When I got home, what awaited me wasn't comfort but another round of Mom's "value assessment".

"This is the best you can do? Looks like you're not capable of much." She took a bite of her watermelon, spitting the seeds onto the floor. "I've said it all along—what's the use of girls getting so much education?

"You'd be better off working early and helping the family. Oh, by the way, Arnold wants to sign up for guitar lessons. It's two thousand dollars a semester.

"How's that college tuition of yours coming along? If you can't get into a good school, don't waste the money. How about you use it for Arnold's lessons instead?"

I felt all the blood in my veins turn to ice.

In their eyes, the meager savings I'd painstakingly earned through countless sleepless nights and bleeding hands weren't even as important as Arnold's latest hobby.

Arnold sat nearby, eyes glued to his video game. When he heard this, he looked up and shouted, "Yeah, Mom's right! You're not going to get in anyway, so that money might as well go to me."

I looked at their smug, self-righteous faces, and my stomach churned. I didn't cry and I didn't make a scene. I knew by now that tears held no currency here.

Instead, I simply picked up the broom and began sweeping up the watermelon seeds Mom had spit across the floor.

"I'll pay you five dollars for sweeping the floor," Mom said, mistaking my silence for obedience. She generously quoted her price. "Scrub the toilet later, and I'll give you another ten. In fact, I'll give you 15 dollars for the whole lot today."

I nodded. "Okay."

I needed money for travel, for tuition, and for the emergency fund that would keep me alive once I finally escaped.

That night, as I knelt on the cold tiles scrubbing the toilet, my mind frantically cycled through words—exhausted, desperate, rebellion, escape.

Each word cut into my heart like a blade, leaving bloody gashes behind.

I scrubbed with a vengeance until every single tile in the bathroom sparkled.

Mom came by to inspect my work and nodded with satisfaction. She pulled 15 dollars from her wallet and handed it over.

"Good job. Here's your money."

I took the bills and tucked them deep into my pocket.

Back in my room, I opened the ledger and wrote "15 dollars paid" next to the entry that said, "Owe Mom 600 dollars".

Then, I pulled out a map. My gaze traveled south, then all the way north—past countless cities—until it finally settled on the city of Harboreal.

It was 1,250 miles away, a place of nothing but snow and ice.

It was far enough.

I closed the map, took out my practice exams, and started frantically grinding through the questions.