Chapter 4

My instinct was to argue, but the screech of the bill validator shattered any room I had left for self-delusion.

I didn't even remember how I managed to walk out of the hospital. All I knew was that my stomach was twisting into agonizing knots, and a rush of blood surged violently up my throat.

I forced it back down, swallowing the agony, and clutched the stack of fake bills as I marched back to the Boba shop. Without missing a beat, I slammed the bills onto the counter.

"Why did you trick me?" I demanded. "This is fraud. I'm calling the police!"

The shop owner was busy with paperwork and barely lifted an eyelid. "Why are you yelling at me? I didn't prepare that money. Your brother came by yesterday and claimed your paycheck.

"He gave me these fake bills instead. Said it was to teach you a lesson—to show you that making money isn't easy."

A violent buzzing filled my brain. Numb and shivering, I dragged myself onto a bus.

The moment I walked through the front door, I demanded sharply, "Did you take my wages?"

Milford didn't look guilty at all. Instead, a smug, self-satisfied grin spread across his face.

"Now you know how hard it is to earn money, huh? Remember this: Chester and I are the ones who care about you the most," he said. "When you're in trouble, you should come home. If that doesn't work, you can always go to Collin."

I shook with rage, tears streaming down my face uncontrollably. Had I not gone to them? Had I not begged?

When the post-chemo agony left me so paralyzed I couldn't even roll out of bed, I had dialed Chester's number, wept into the receiver, and begged him to come stay with me for a while.

"Lena is in a bad mood today," he had only said. "I can't leave her. You've been sick for so many years anyway. Just tough it out."

When my medical bills piled up and the hospital kept calling for payment, I stood in the hallway clutching the invoice and texted Milford.

His reply came hours later: [Asking for money again? Can you stop using your illness as an excuse? Don't we wire your living expenses every month?]

One night, when my fever hit 104 degrees, and there wasn't even hot water in my apartment, I called Collin in a delirium.

"Lena had a nightmare," he had said. "I need to stay with her tonight. Just take some fever reducers yourself."

In all those moments, had any of them helped me?

Unable to hold back anymore, I yelled, "Give me my money back! That was my paycheck! I earned it with my own hands!"

Dissatisfied, he strode over, grabbed my arm, and started pushing me toward the door. "Money! That's all you care about the moment you walk in!

"You've been sick for so many years and have cost this family so much money! Forget $3,000. We've spent way more than $30,000 on keeping you alive!"

In the middle of the struggle, my chest suddenly tightened. The metallic taste I had forced down earlier surged up again.

This time, I couldn't stop it. A heavy splatter of dark, visceral blood erupted from my lips, spraying across the leather of Lena's shoes just as she stepped through the front door.

Chester and Milford recoiled, their faces shifting in shock. Collin took a frantic step toward me. "Vicky, you..."

But before he could reach me, Lena started whining, "Vicky, even if you're desperate for cash, you don't have to use theatrical blood packs to stage a show. Doing things like this is only going to worry my brothers and Collin unnecessarily."

She paused, a tear rolling down her cheek. "Milford bought me this pair of shoes just yesterday. They cost $5,000. I've only worn them once..."

The flicker of panic that had briefly surfaced in the three men's eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, unifying disgust.

"Vicky, when did you become like this?" Collin frowned in deep disappointment. "You'd do something like this for money?"

Milford crouched down and used a tissue to wipe Lena's shoes. "Don't cry. It's just a pair of shoes. I'll buy you new ones."

Lena sniffled, nodding with an air of fragile innocence. Meanwhile, I remained slumped against the entryway wall, the agony inside my abdomen so blinding I could barely stand.

The physical pain and the pain in my heart coiled together, threatening to tear me apart. I had worked myself to the bone, standing beneath a merciless, blistering sun for eight hours a day inside a suffocating mascot suit.

It took me 30 agonizing days to earn $3,000. And that wasn't even enough to buy Lena a pair of shoes.

Chester walked up to me. But instead of asking if I was in pain, he pulled out two $100 bills from his wallet and callously shoved them into my hand.

"Drop the theater. Bringing blood into the household brings terrible luck," he spat, his voice dripping with aversion. "You wanted cash, right? Take it and get out of our sight."

The bills felt thin against my palm, and the edges cut deeper than a razor blade. I stared down at the paper for a long time, then slowly curled my fingers around it and staggered blindly out of the house.

I didn't go back to my apartment. Instead, I navigated the streets until I reached a pawn shop in the southern district of the city.

Around my neck was a pendant I had worn for ten years. It was a collective gift from Chester, Milford, and Collin the year my diagnosis was first confirmed.

Back then, they had placed it around my neck, swearing to protect me and keep me alive with everything. In the years that followed, they gave Lena whatever she wanted.

The only thing she had begged for many times but never received was this pendant. Because of that one boundary, I had spent years foolishly believing that somewhere deep within their hearts, they still cared about me.

So, when I moved out of the house, I took nothing else with me. Even when I was too poor to eat or too sick to afford medicine, I had never sold it.

Now I simply unclasped the chain and placed it flat onto the glass counter. The shopkeeper weighed the silver piece in his palm, offering an insultingly meager sum, but I didn't bargain.

Once the cash was secured, I walked into the hospital pharmacy and purchased my maximum allowance of painkillers. I ignored the attending oncologist's demands for immediate inpatient admission, turned on my heels and walked out.

At three in the afternoon, I picked up the second-hand car I had reserved. As the car broke past the city limits, an ominous shelf of dark clouds pressed down against the horizon.

I stared straight at the open road stretching out before me, steadily pressed my foot down onto the accelerator, and drove due west.

I never looked back.