His to Ruin: Breaking Chelsea

NIGHT SHIFT

~CHELSEA~

The smell of bleach burns my nostrils as I scrub at a stubborn black mark on Crawford Elite's spotless white tile floor. Some rich kid's designer shoe scuff, probably.

I press harder, the muscles in my arm aching from three hours of similar work already tonight.

"Come on," I mutter, watching the mark slowly fade under my attack. Small victories.

At 1:13 AM, the huge school hallway stretches empty in both directions. My rubber gloves squeak against the wet tile, the sound echoing off trophy cases filled with golden evidence of Crawford Elite's greatness.

National debate champions. Robotics competition winners. Soccer tournament trophies that seem to multiply every season.

I sit back on my heels, blowing a strand of chestnut hair from my eyes. My ponytail started falling apart an hour ago, but I can't stop to fix it.

The night cleaning crew is already short two people, which means double the work for half the praise.

The mark finally disappears. I drop my scrub brush into my bucket with a splash and stand, my knees cracking in protest. At twenty, I shouldn't feel like my body is betraying me, but three jobs do that to a person.

Days at Rusty's Diner, slinging greasy plates to truckers who think the reasonable tip for my service is their phone number.

Evenings at community college when I can squeeze together enough for a class…fewer and farther between these days.

And nights here, at Crawford Elite Academy, where teenagers with trust funds sleep in dorms nicer than any apartment I've ever lived in.

I check my watch, a cheap digital thing with a cracked face. Two hours until my shift ends. Then a three-hour nap before starting all over again.

"You missed a spot."

I spin around, heart in my throat.

Nobody should be here. The students are required to be in their dorms by midnight. The security guard, Mr. Patterson, makes his rounds every hour, but he passed through ten minutes ago.

The hallway remains empty.

Great. Now I'm hearing things. Lack of sleep playing tricks on my mind.

I wheel my cleaning cart toward the science wing, the shaky wheel squeaking a rhythm that matches the pounding in my head.

Three more classrooms, then the faculty lounge, and I can start on the gym.

My favorite part of the night is cleaning the athletic facilities. Not because I enjoy the reek of teenage sweat, but because once I finish, I can sneak a quick workout on equipment I could never afford.

Twenty minutes on the treadmill, maybe some free weights if time allows.

My small rebellion against Crawford Elite's extra. Using their fancy facilities while they sleep on thousand-thread-count sheets.

The science wing sparkles under the half-lit fluorescents.

I start my routine in the chemistry lab, wiping down tables, scrubbing sinks, and mopping the floor. Mechanical movements I could do in my sleep.

Sometimes I think I actually do.

My phone rings in my pocket, my one luxury, a prepaid smartphone one model too old to be cool.

I ignore it at first. Probably Zoe asking if I want to crash at her place after shift. My best friend never seems to grasp the concept of night work.

When it buzzes a second time, then a third, I peel off my right glove and fish it out.

Unknown number. My stomach drops. Unknown numbers never bring good news. "Hello?" I answer, voice echoing in the empty classroom.

"Is this Chelsea Lynch?" A clinical, unfamiliar voice.

"Speaking."

"This is Mercy General Hospital. We're calling about Chase Lynch."

The floor seems to wave beneath my feet. I grip the edge of a lab table. "What happened? Is he okay?" The words spill out, each one sharper than the last.

"Your brother has been admitted with severe abdominal pain and elevated inflammatory markers. His doctor has requested immediate treatment, but we need to confirm payment arrangements."

Of course they do. Because in America, "Is my brother dying?" comes second to "Can you pay?"

"I have his insurance card. And there should be an emergency contact file with my information as his guardian." I try to keep my voice steady.

Falling apart won't help Chase.

"Yes, we have that on file. However, the treatment Dr. Patel is recommending exceeds what your insurance will cover upfront. We'll need a deposit of eight hundred dollars before we can proceed."

Eight hundred dollars. Might as well be eight million.

"I understand. I can be there in thirty minutes." I end the call and immediately pull up my banking app.

The emergency fund I have been building for exactly this situation has almost a thousand dollars…every extra penny I have managed to save over the last six months.

It should cover Chase's treatment with even a little left over.

The app takes forever to load on the school's weak signal. When it finally opens, I stare at the screen, sure I'm reading it wrong.

Balance: $23.47

That's not possible. I checked it yesterday….$978.32. I haven't touched it.

But I'm not the only one with access.

Mom.

My hand clenches around my phone. Diana Lynch, who promised she was clean this time. Who swore on Chase's life that she was done with Samuel and his "borrowing."

With shaking fingers, I call my mother. It rings once, twice, straight to voicemail.

"This is Diana! Leave a message!"The artificial cheer in her voice makes my stomach turn.

"Mom, call me back. Now. Chase is in the hospital, and the money is gone. All of it. Call me back."

I try again. Voicemail. A third time. Nothing.

I lean against the wall, sliding down until I hit the floor. Eight hundred dollars. I have twenty-three dollars in my account, forty in cash in my apartment, and maybe…if I beg…a hundred I could borrow from Zoe.

Not enough. Nowhere near enough.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until stars burst behind my lids. I can't cry. Crying won't help Chase.

The school's empty hallways suddenly feel like they're closing in. Every gleaming surface, every expensive fixture mocks me.

The chemistry lab alone probably contains equipment worth more than I'll make in a year.

Think, Chelsea.

I could call Dr. Patel directly. The kind physician has helped before, stretching payments, sometimes "forgetting" to bill for follow-up appointments.

I pull up the contact and press call, holding my breath.

"You've reached Dr. Amara Patel. I'm unavailable until Monday, September 12th. If this is an emergency, please contact the hospital directly or call 911."

Monday. Three days away.

My head falls back against the wall with a thud. Of course. Because when it rains, it pours, and my life is an endless hurricane.

I force myself to stand. Standing means I'm not beaten yet. Standing means I can still fight.

Options. I need options.

I could call Samuel…beg him to return what my mother has undoubtedly given him. But the thought of owing that man anything makes bile rise in my throat.

Payday loans? With my credit, the interest would drown me.

I could sell something…but what? My ancient laptop? The TV that barely works? The earrings my grandmother left me, the only thing of value I own.

I walk back to my cleaning cart, movements mechanical. I have to finish my shift. Getting fired won't help Chase either.

I check my watch again. If I skip the faculty lounge, I can clock out early. Be at the hospital in twenty minutes. Figure something out there.

As I gather my supplies, my phone rings again. The hospital. I answer on the first ring.

"Ms. Lynch, we wanted to follow up regarding payment for Chase's treatment." The woman's voice is professionally detached.

"I'm on my way. Just—tell Dr. Ryker I'm coming. Please, just let them start treatment, and I'll be there." I try to keep the desperation from my voice and fail.

"I'm afraid hospital policy requires payment arrangements before…”

"He's sixteen. He's in pain. Please."

A pause. "I understand your concern, but our hands are tied by policy."

I close my eyes. "I'll figure it out. Just—don't let him suffer while you wait."

"We're managing his pain, Ms. Lynch. But the treatment itself cannot begin without payment. Dr. Ryker is quite concerned about the inflammation levels."

Concerned. Medical code for "this is bad."

"Twenty minutes. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

I end the call and stare at my reflection in the polished surface of a lab table. Pale face, dark circles under hazel eyes, hair falling out of its ponytail. I look as desperate as I feel.

My phone rings again. Unknown number. I answer, hoping it's Dr. Patel returning my call from another line.

"Ms. Lynch?" The same hospital administrator. "I'm afraid we can't proceed without payment upfront. Will that be cash or credit today?"

I close my eyes, knuckles white around my phone, the effect of impossible choices crushing my chest.