Chapter 3

My pen swept across the transfer order—smooth, unbroken, not a trace of hesitation.

“Report next Monday morning.” I slid the paper back to old Cooper.

The shop supervisor looked at me, a flicker of surprise crossing his eyes. Maybe he thought I’d at least make a call and “discuss it” with my wife. Before this, even picking up two extra hours of overtime, I had to report back—afraid I’d miss the window to take care of that whole household of old and young.

I said nothing and went straight back to the ground-level floor to keep working.

Leaving doesn’t require an announcement. The second I signed, I’d already cut off the oxygen tube this family relied on to breathe—unilaterally.

At dusk, the moment I pushed open the entryway door, a thick wave of barbecue spices hit me in the face.

The living room was loud with voices. My mother-in-law had deliberately invited a few neighbors from two streets over for dinner. The long table was packed to the brim, and right in the center sat an expensive Beef Wellington—paid for with the card I’d just pushed another $120 into overdraft on.

My father-in-law sat in the head seat like a king. My wife, Emily, was tucked close beside him—well-dressed, smile perfectly in place.

The only seat left for me was the narrowest corner near the pass-through. I peeled off my coveralls stained with a bit of machine oil, washed my hands, and sat down without a word.

The big LCD on the wall was playing the local evening news. The shot cut to a special segment on community charity.

On the screen, Emily wore that beige knit sweater, standing in front of a peeling brick wall in the poor district. Facing the camera, even the curve of her compassion was calibrated to perfection. “Our foundation’s core plan for next year is to expand into three surrounding underserved neighborhoods, so more homeless children can get one hot meal in winter.”

The frame froze on her saintly face. A bold caption appeared underneath:

The sole nominee for the Annual Community Hero Award: Emily Harris.

“Wow—”

My mother-in-law slammed her wineglass down and clapped until her palms turned red, her voice cutting through the brittle air. “Our girl is making the whole family proud! A real saint!”

The guests immediately got the hint, raising their glasses and piling on the praise. Slick flattery filled the dining room in seconds.

My father-in-law leaned back in his chair, squinted at the screen for a few beats, then gave a heavy snort. He turned his head, casting a sideways glance at me hunched at the edge.

“Look at your wife,” the old man rapped his knuckles against the mahogany tabletop, contempt unmasked in his tone. “Now look at you. People ask what you do—one of you is up in the clouds getting worshipped, the other’s down in the mud fixing scrap metal. That gap—tsk.”

The compliments died off hard. Across from me, the bald neighbor cleared his throat twice and bent over his salad. Another woman covered her mouth, forcing down the laugh in her eyes.

My right hand hovered in midair. The tips of my chopsticks were half an inch from the onion rings.

But I didn’t answer. My wrist dipped almost imperceptibly, steady as a line, and I took the food.

No point arguing with an old man who, next week, would be in the ER again—gasping on the edge of death because he ran out of meds. The dead don’t need reasons.

“My mom is a TV superstar!” my eight-year-old daughter suddenly hopped off her chair.

Barefoot, she ran over, her small pale finger pointing at the screen, pride written all over her face. My six-year-old son followed, making noise along with her—blood from the same parents, even the snobbery on their faces cut from the same mold.

Then my daughter whipped around, blinking those big eyes as she stared straight at me.

“Dad.” Her crisp, loud child’s voice exploded in the silent dining room. “You’ve been messing around in that factory for so long—when are you going to get on TV just once?”

The whole table dropped into a deathly hush.

For a full two seconds, even breathing seemed to get sucked out of the room.

“Oh, kids say the darndest things!” my mother-in-law finally reacted, forcing a smile to smooth it over. “Your dad… he has his own little skills too. Come on, everyone, keep eating. Don’t just watch the news.”

“Heh.” My father-in-law squeezed out a scornful puff through his nose, lifted his red wine, and clinked glasses with a neighbor—bright and sharp.

I didn’t move. I leaned back in my chair and forced that dry, stringy chunk of meat down my throat.

From start to finish, the heart that should’ve been feeling humiliation and rage stayed flat—dead water. They didn’t know it was exactly this high-handed arrogance that severed my last, faint thread of attachment.

Eleven at night, in the bedroom.

The guests still hadn’t left. I walked to the closet alone and pulled open the creaking wooden door.

Inside hung the full extent of my territory—three worn dark-blue work uniforms, and one gray, frayed-collar jacket. As for the tailored suits and designer silk dresses beside them, those were all trophies the “community angel” never once paid for with her own money.

I yanked out a cheap canvas travel bag and spread it on the bed, stuffing in the pitiful few pieces of my clothing.

“You’re going on a trip?”

A cool voice came from the doorway. Emily was wearing a half-transparent hydrating gel mask, leaning against the frame. She didn’t even step into the room I shared a bed with her every day.

I turned around. Veins stood out on the back of my hand as I yanked the zipper shut on the canvas bag.

“Factory’s sending me out of state.” I didn’t look at her. My voice was mechanical, stripped of emotion. “Six months.”

“Oh.” She didn’t even ask where, or what kind of work—she just nodded, indifferent.

“Go do your thing.” Emily turned lightly away, tossing out a line polished to perfection. “Focus on making money. I’ll take care of things at home.”

From the bathroom came the small sound of her tossing that plastic sheet into the bin.

You’ll take care of things at home?

I stared at the tightly closed bag. I hadn’t packed a dollar from this house, not a single coin—didn’t even take tomorrow’s food. I was leaving clean.

On one side of the nightstand, seven plastic pill bottles were stacked in neat rows. Over these past few days, on my way home from work, I’d hit three pharmacies—buying them one by one as emergency meds to keep that arrogant old man alive.

Under this roof that supposedly had “her taking care of it,” those empty bottles had sat there nearly a week, and not a single person had bothered to throw them out.

I stepped over, reached out, and swept my arm across.

Seven hard plastic shells clattered and rolled, and with one kick I sent them deep into the darkness of the wastebasket.