Chapter 2

"She's not dead," I answered flatly.

Amber let out a sigh of relief, but quickly sighed again.

"Earlier, I saw him holding a picture of you when you were little and wiping away tears in secret. He said that once you grew up, you didn't want to acknowledge him as your father anymore."

"Walt..."

A timid voice came from outside the door.

"Dinner's ready. You and Amber should come out to eat. I bought beef today..."

"Get lost!"

I slammed the door shut with force.

I tore open an old loaf of bread from my schoolbag and took a harsh bite.

Amber stood up.

"Mr. Wilshere, he's in a bad mood, so don't take it to heart..."

My father looked past her shoulder at me.

His eyes grew even redder. He nodded, turned around, and walked away, showing Amber his unsteady, desolate back.

The live-stream comments went crazy.

[Walt, if you don't want such a wonderful father, give him to me! My dad left before I was even born...]

[I wish I could punch someone through the screen...]

Amber lay down on my makeshift floor bed, deep in troubled thoughts. I watched her constantly twist and rub her pendant against her chest.

"Did I do something wrong...?"

I knew what she meant. She thought she shouldn't have listened to me and come here to secretly film a pitiful father.

I turned over and ignored her.

Before long, however, she shook me awake with a firm grip.

"Wake up! Mr. Wilshere is sick!"

My father's cheeks were flushed, and his forehead was burning hot. Yet, out of habit, he still wiped his grease-stained hands on his apron and smiled at me.

"Walt, I specifically went all the way to Closer Street to buy some excellent ribs for you. Look, BBQ ribs. These were your favorite when you were little, weren't they?"

Amber was stunned.

"Closer Street is 12 miles away. Mr. Wilshere, did you walk all the way there in ten-degree weather?"

My father smiled apologetically.

"Walt wouldn't eat his dinner..."

Amber lowered her head and wiped away a tear.

"Here, Walt, have a taste. I've washed my hands clean, so it's not dirty."

"Mr. Wilshere, how could you ever be dirty?"

Amber snatched the rib, nearly shoving the rib directly into my mouth.

"Come on, try it. It's Mr. Wilshere's heartfelt gesture."

I didn't move an inch. I just stared at my father.

He looked at me with an expression full of eager anticipation. Amber also waited expectantly for my reaction.

Every single viewer was waiting for my attitude to thaw.

Not a single person noticed the flash of mockery in my father's eyes, a mockery that only I could read.

I smiled at Amber.

"You see? He's always so good at acting."

After lightly dropping those words, I turned around and walked back into my room.

Behind me came Amber's panicking voice.

"Mr. Wilshere! Mr. Wilshere, what's wrong?! Walt! Get over here right now! Mr. Wilshere passed out!"

Amber took care of my father's hospitalization procedures entirely on her own.

The live-stream comments were already cursing me into oblivion.

Not only that, my personal information was also doxxed.

My photos were turned into funeral portraits, stamped with bright red characters bearing my name and plastered across the streets and alleys.

When Amber returned three days later, her eyes were teary.

"You truly have not an ounce of conscience. I really want to take you to a hospital to check if you're missing some kind of human-specific genetic sequence."

"Like I said, observe for a month," I stared at her. "Don't jump to conclusions before the 30th day."

She violently threw my coat onto the floor. She refused to spare me another look.

Finally, on the 10th day, she noticed something was amiss.

"Walt, I've noticed that Mr. Wilshere goes out every single night."