Chapter 3

I walked over to the pharmacy counter.

A number appeared on the screen: [$236.]

I reached into my pocket. I searched every pocket I had.

Forty-three dollars. That was all I had.

I stepped out of line, found a quiet corner of the hospital and folded my diagnosis sheet carefully before slipping it into my pocket.

Then I walked out through the hospital doors.

The cold wind brushed against my face.

A few days earlier, she had told me how badly her legs ached in the winter cold. She had been eyeing a pair of imported knee braces with built-in heating pads, talking about them for days with a quiet look of longing.

I told myself that I would buy her the knee braces first. Once I bought them, I would come back for my medicine.

Mom put down her phone. She looked at Dad and shook her head.

“No answer.”

Mabelr’s brows drew together. She swiped through her phone.

“Naomi didn’t text me today.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “She always sends me pictures when she’s out making deliveries.”

The air seemed to freeze. Steam still curled from the plate of ribs on the table.

No one touched their cutleries.

Dad slowly sat back down. Mom stared at her phone.

Mabel gripped the arms of her wheelchair with both hands.

I stood beside the dining table and looked at their anxious faces.

I reached out, wanting to touch Mom’s hair. Yet my hand passed straight through empty air.

…

For the past two weeks, I had been counting every penny. I was trying to save enough for those heated knee braces.

Every morning, I left home with two breads. I skipped lunch. At night, I came home to a bowl of cereal.

I cut my food budget down to almost nothing. I even put off paying my phone bill, and I sold the only pair of thick rubber-soled winter shoes I owned for a few dozen dollars.

I gathered every last bit of money I had. However, I was still a little short.

I took out my diagnosis sheet and glanced at it. Then I tucked it away again.

I was almost there.

Once I got the knee braces, I would get my medicine.

Four days ago, I finished my deliveries and came home at ten that night.

My stomach hurt as though a knife were twisting inside me. Bent over, I stumbled through the door, one hand gripping the frame for support.

Mom was feeding Mabel her medicine.

I leaned against the wall, struggling to catch my breath.

“Mom, my stomach’s been hurting for days. Could you give me some money? I need to get some medicine.”

Mom did not even look up. She lifted the spoon to Mabel’s lips.

“Mabel spends every day in a wheelchair and she doesn’t complain once. You’ve been delivering food for two days and now you’re whining about every little ache? We’ve spent all the money we have on Mabel’s new meds. One box costs hundreds!”

Dad came out of the bedroom. He looked at me coldly.

“Last month, you even faked your symptoms and wasted dozens of dollars on tests. And now you’re pulling the same stunt again? Are you jealous because Mabel gets nutritional supplements, so you’re pretending to be sick?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out as my stomach churned violently.

I turned and went back to my tiny room — the one without a window.

I closed the door. Then I collapsed onto the hard wooden bed.

I pressed the blanket tightly against my stomach. I curled myself into a ball, like a shrimp. I clenched my teeth and swallowed every cry of pain.

…

It was almost nine o’clock.

The food on the table had already gone cold twice. Mom carried the dishes back to the kitchen, reheated everything, and brought them out again.

Still, no one ate.

Mom picked up her phone and dialed my number again.

Beep… beep… beep…

“I’m sorry. The number you’re trying to reach has been forwarded to voicemail.”

The mechanical voice echoed through the living room.

Mom’s hand began to tremble.

“How did it go straight to voicemail? Naomi never turns off her phone. She can’t get any delivery orders if her phone’s off.”

Dad walked over to the window. He pushed it open and looked down.