The Love I Couldn't Clock In For

The infirmary reeked of disinfectant.

I opened my eyes. A harsh light glared down from the ceiling. Fluid dripped through a plastic tube into my vein while my stomach cramped in waves.

I stared at the Family Attendance Chart on my phone for a full minute. I felt nothing.

Half an hour earlier, my hands had been submerged in formaldehyde for anatomy class, and I'd missed six video check-ins with my mother, Rhonda Whiteley. By the time I checked my phone, she'd already docked my allowance into the negative according to her chart.

She'd even sent a sixty-second voice message. Her tone was gentle. But every word cut like a knife.

"Giselle, you've disappointed me so much. Your allowance is zeroed out. Think hard about what you've done."

I hadn't eaten in two full days. My blood sugar crashed, triggering a severe stomach spasm, and I'd collapsed stiff as a board outside the anatomy building.

I raised my left hand and opened my chat thread with Rhonda. The screen was packed with check-in records.

[Mom, I'm in the cafeteria.]

[Mom, I'm studying.]

[Mom, I'm pulling an all-nighter at the library, not going back to the dorm.]

Every message got a single curt word back from her, or a glaring notice that she'd rejected a money transfer.

I blocked her on every app: messaging, calls, payments, and the entire relatives' group chat.

Once that was done, I sat up. I ripped the tape off the back of my hand and yanked out the needle. Blood welled up immediately, dripping onto the sheets.

"Oh my god, what are you doing?"

The on-duty nurse rushed in with a tray and clamped my hand down. "The glucose drip isn't finished. You're too weak. You cannot pull that out!"

I pulled a tissue free, pressed it hard over the puncture, and threw off the blanket to get out of bed.

"Could you refund the rest of the medication, please?"

The nurse's eyes went wide. "Refund it? Do you have any idea how low your blood pressure was when they brought you in? Keep starving yourself like this, and you'll actually die!"

I tugged the corner of my mouth into something like a smile. "I know. But my pockets are cleaner than my face. I can't afford the bill."

The nurse froze, then let out a heavy sigh. "Your advisor already covered the bill. Twenty dollars."

Twenty dollars.

To my brother, Sean Kerr, that wouldn't even cover two drinks at a restaurant. To me, it was a small fortune I couldn't afford to lose.

I walked to the nurses' station and signed the refund form, asked her to put the leftover balance back on my card, and told her I'd pay my advisor back.

I stepped out of the infirmary into the glare of the September sun. I pressed a hand to my aching stomach and headed for my dorm.

When I pushed the door open, my roommate, Paige Huntington, was lying there with a face mask on. She turned at the sound.

"Giselle, you're finally back! The advisor said you fainted. Are you okay?"

I shook my head and walked to my desk, then opened my old laptop. "I'm fine. Just low blood sugar."

Paige leaned in and lowered her voice. "Your mom posted about wiring you six hundred for the semester. How are you broke enough to eat dirt? Did it all go to your brother again?"

My fingers froze over the keyboard. I didn't explain. I opened the med school's internal forum instead, scrolled until the cursor landed on a pinned post.

The Cadaver Preservation and Dissection Lab was hiring a night assistant.

Requirements: strong nerves, solid dissection fundamentals, able to work nights.

Compensation: a three-hundred-dollar monthly stipend, plus a late-night meal included.

The whole school knew about this lab, and nobody wanted to touch it. It was packed with decomposing specimens. It was run by an academician named Professor Jon Cheshire, notoriously strict in academic circles.

I clicked apply and attached my freshman transcript, straight A's across the board. Three hundred dollars was enough to keep me alive and pay my advisor back. After everything I'd been through, the dead were a lot easier to deal with than the living.

Less than ten minutes after I submitted the application, my phone buzzed. It was a text.

"Ten o'clock tonight. Sub-basement two, the lab. Be on time."

Staring at the message, my cracked lips curved up, just slightly.