Chapter 4
Della's POV
[Cognitive output and sustained focus are the core metrics for determining labor value.]
[Initiating Tier One penalty: equivalent pain stimulus.]
[Targets: Warren. Beatrice.]
"No! This contract means nothing! I'm done with it!" Dad charges for the front door.
He doesn't make it two steps.
A bolt of deep red light comes out of nowhere and slams into him. He goes flying, hits the wall hard, and crumples to the floor — whole body seizing, face gone white. He can't even get up on his hands and knees.
Mom collapses where she's standing. She scrambles behind the couch and presses herself into the corner, eyes fixed on the middle of the room like something's still hovering there.
[Today's penalty has been carried out. The remaining deficit is too large to settle today and will carry over to tomorrow. If the cumulative deficit exceeds 100 hours, Tier Two penalties will be automatically triggered.]
The living room is quiet except for Dad groaning on the floor and Mom trying to muffle her crying.
I look at him lying there, at the way pain and fear have twisted up his face.
There was a time that face terrified me. When he raised his hand, I flinched before it even landed.
Now he just looks pathetic to me. That's all.
"Looks like you two didn't work hard enough today." I crouch down in front of him. "Tomorrow, maybe cut back on the coffee breaks. A hundred hours goes faster than you think."
I grab my bag and walk to my room without looking back at either of them.
The door clicks shut. I lean against it. And then I stop trying to hold it back — I'm smiling so wide it almost hurts.
For the next three weeks, I'm not in class. I'm at the USAPhO residential training camp — a closed intensive for the top physics students, put together by the school ahead of nationals.
A gold medal at nationals means a real shot at a full ride to an Ivy. This is my window. I'm not wasting it.
Six a.m., every morning, the camp PA goes off.
What follows is ten-plus hours of the most punishing academic pressure I've ever been in. Professors fill whiteboards with equations that barely look like math anymore and expect you to solve them before the clock runs out. The lab equipment runs around the clock. The data sets are massive. Get something wrong and they let you know on the spot, no cushioning.
One by one, kids around me hit their limit and drop out.
Not me.
Every time my brain feels like it's about to give out, every time my vision starts to blur at the edges, I think about the kick that sent my bedroom door crashing open. I think about the way Mom looked at me like I was something beneath her. I think about that parchment glowing red on my blanket.
I can't stop.
I don't just finish what the professors assign. I go further. I'm out in the hallway past midnight working through derivations under the emergency lights. I'm building models in my head between bites at dinner.
My brain is running so far past capacity it should be burning out. But it isn't.
Because I know that every hour I put in here gets multiplied by the contract's 1-to-5 conversion rate, stacking up into something enormous — a weight that's been hanging over my parents' heads this whole time, getting heavier every single day.
Three weeks go by faster than I expect.
When I finally make it back to the front door, bags in hand, I've lost weight, my face is pale, and I look like sleep stopped being a real option weeks ago. But my eyes are sharp. Sharper than they've ever been.
I push the door open.
Mom and Dad are on the couch. Both of them look rough — dark circles, faces pulled tight, like the past three weeks cost them something. Apparently racking up hours meant actually staying at work for once. Might have even stayed late a few times.
The second Dad sees the state I'm in, his whole face lights up.
"Look at you." He laughs, coming toward me. "Your teacher said you were off at some training camp? What a joke. You should've been home working on your SAT."
Mom crosses her arms, pleased with herself. "Della, your dad and I stayed at work until nine every single night for three weeks. Between the two of us, that's almost four hundred hours. So what's your number? How many hours did you actually put in?"
"You want to know what I think?" Dad is still grinning. "She didn't study a single hour. The whole camp thing was just an excuse to disappear."
They're practically leaning forward, waiting for the contract to tear into me.
I walk past them to the center of the living room, set down my bag, and stand still.
"You'll know soon enough."
Dad's eyes narrow. "Stop acting like you've got something. You better not come crying to us when this goes sideways."
I glance at the clock on the wall.
Midnight arrives right on time.
When the numbers come through, even I wasn't ready for what I'm looking at.
