We eat biscuits by candlelight as the sun falls and masks our world in shadow. Coupled with the soup Mrs. Gray has provided, it is a meal I wouldn’t have had the energy to make after my premature defeat, especially for a family who has been relying on me so heavily for the past six months.


    “Sophie,” Diego says, lifting his eyes from his half-eaten bowl to look at me.


    “Yeah?”


    “Are you still sad that you didn’t win your game?”


    “Not really,” I say, hoping he won’t press me on the matter any further.


    The truth is I’m devastated. The knowledge that I’d come so close to maintaining a ranking position on the Dystopian leaderboards only to have it ripped away from me by an error of human machinery is like having a kidney removed without permission. Bound, then gagged; lifted, then pulled; deposited into, then shut within the trunk of a car. It is as if I have been kidnapped and no longer have a will of my own—as if fate, whoever she happens to be, left the course of my future in the hands of someone else.


    As I think on this, and as I try my hardest to maintain my composure in light of all that has happened, I hope Diego won’t see that I’m upset. It’s dark, thankfully, so he won’t notice the disappointment on my face. If I’m not careful, though, he’ll definitely hear it in my voice.


    Rather than continue the conversation, I spoon the last of my soup into my mouth, then rise and extend my hand to accept Diego’s empty bowl. “Time for bed, squirt,” I say.


    “Aww!” Diego says. “Really, Sophie?”


    “It’s dark, and you have to be up for school in the morning.”


    “But—”


    I shake my head.


    With a sigh, he makes his way toward his side of the room.


    “Brush your teeth!” I say. “You know what Mama says about a stinky mouth.”


    “Stinky mouths are for stinky people,” Diego responds and begrudgingly heads toward the bathroom.


    Allowing myself a moment of respite in the small kitchen along the far wall, I breathe in, then out. I imagine my emotions are pooling from me with each exhale, and fresh hope with every inhale. Regardless, it doesn’t seem to help. Images of what could have been continue to flash through my mind.


    A prize, unimaginable—


    Lives, changed—


    Futures, fulfilled—


    My mother could see a doctor. Diego could go to a better school. And me? Well, I could take care of my family forever—or, at least, for a very long time.


    I shake these thoughts out of my head. Even the fantasy is too painful to imagine.


    After I have tucked Diego into bed, and recited by heart his favorite story, I slip into my mother’s bedroom. The interior is so shrouded in darkness that I can barely see a thing.


    “Magpie?” she asks. “Is that you?”


    “Yes, Mama. It is.”


    I can’t help but smile at the nickname, which I’d earned from my obsession with birds as a child. The semblance of normalcy it brings is enough to dull the ache in my heart and the throb at the back of my neck.


    “Come here,” she says.


    Fumbling through the darkness, I come to the bedside. When my mother’s hand finds mine, I squeeze, but gently. Her skin is hot to the touch.


    “Did you get enough to eat?” I ask, not looking toward the bowl she’d requested I’d only fill a third of the way for fear that my movements might upset her.


    “I did,” she replies.


    “You’ve gotta eat more, Mama.”


    “I know, sweetheart. And I will. Just… not tonight.”


    I sigh.


    “What’s wrong?”


    “Nothing,” I lie.


    “Magpie.”


    “Really, Mama. It’s nothing to worry about.”


    She doesn’t say anything for several long moments. When she finally does, it’s to ask, “Did you win your game?”


    I want to say no—that I didn’t, because the truth is almost too painful to bear. But rather than offer her an answer that is likely to bring harm, I say, “I tried my best.”


    “That’s my girl.”


    This time, the smile that comes is genuine, not forced. She’s always been my biggest supporter. I just wish I could do more for her.


    After a moment of holding her hand—of squeezing, of running my thumb along her sweaty palm and thinking on what tomorrow may bring—I rise from my place on the bed. “I’m gonna go to bed.”


    “Sleep well, baby.”


    “G’night, Mama.”


    “Goodnight,” she says.


    I perform my nighttime rituals in the privacy of a darkened home. I brush my teeth, comb my hair, wash my face and my body, and dress into the insulated pink nightgown that has seen better years. Once beneath the covers, I consider what little moonlight streams in first through the windows, then the slats in the divider separating my side of the room from the rest of the apartment. Then, I begin to wonder.


    What would have happened had the power not cut off when it did? Would I have killed the Lobo? Would it have killed me? Would I have emerged victorious in a battle of wits against not only the computer-generated monsters, but the player characters about the map? I know I’m a good gamer, but just because I’m skilled doesn’t mean that someone else isn’t better.


    I sigh.


    The fact of the matter is: it doesn’t matter. By “leaving” the match early, even if not by my own will, I will be penalized for my supposed poor sportsmanship. Even if I somehow did rank in the leaderboards, my chances of being summoned to compete in the Kingsman Online Gaming Regionals are slim to none.


    Better to believe you failed than to believe you have a chance, my conscience says.


    Though it stings, I can’t deny the truth of the matter.


    As I close my eyes, and as I begin to drift off to sleep, I can’t help but think of how great life would be if I was invited to the Kingsman Regionals.


    At least I’d get to compete.


    At least I’d have a chance.


    #


    I awaken sometime the following morning to the groan of the furnace coming back on. Tired beyond compare from a restless night, I expel a breath and roll over to bury my face in my pillows. There’s nothing I want more than to succumb to sleep—to drown my worries in the soft pillow sheet and delicate blankets surrounding me—but know I can’t. I have to not only rouse, feed, and get Diego ready for, but walk him to school.


    With that in mind, I roll out of my bed, call, “Diego!” then add, “Up!”


    He responds with a groan from the other side of the room.


    “Come on, D. Get up.”


    “I don’t wanna!”


    “Do it anyway.”The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    “Maybe school’s been canceled?” he asks, hope in his voice.


    “Why would it be canceled?”


    “The blackout?”


    “The power’s back on. Now up.”


    He protests at first, but eventually I hear the pad of his footsteps across the hardwood floor with the usual grumbling that occurs on school mornings. He glances toward my side of the room, and through the thin slats that separate us, I watch him, waiting for some form of argument. When none comes, however, and when he turns to enter the bathroom, I pass into the kitchen.


    My reality hits me almost immediately.


    Living here, in this one-bedroom apartment, struggling to make it through life with the knowledge that my mother may eventually die and I will be forced to care for Diego on my own—it’s like a cyclone bearing down upon me: the wind my thoughts, my mind its eye. I am instantly assaulted with the magnitude of this burden; and while standing there, staring at the cooler in which I’d meticulously arranged all our perishables to ensure they would not go bad overnight, I wonder if we’ll ever get out of this mess.


    Maybe, my conscience is quick to add, if your mother—


    I shake my head.


    No. I can’t think about that—not now, not in the aftermath of such a cruel defeat. I know my mother will be fine. She has to be.


    With that thought firmly implanted, I go about pulling the remains of Mrs. Gray’s potato soup and the eggs I will use to supplement Diego’s breakfast with protein from the cooler—the former of which I pour into a saucepan, the latter I begin scrambling. As I cook, careful to make sure I don’t use too much salt or pepper for fear of upsetting Mama’s stomach, I listen for the sound of her bed creaking to signal that she has awoken. Sometimes she doesn’t like being roused from a late-night’s sleep to eat, but that’s how she’s always been, even before the sickness. The Bite has only exacerbated that fact.


    I have just finished cooking breakfast when the door to the bathroom opens. Diego rushes across the space, filled with newfound energy, his hair still damp and his skin radiating warmth. “What’s for breakfast?” he asks.


    “Last night’s soup,” I say, “and eggs.”


    “Again?”


    I glare at him.


    He sobers instantly. “Sorry,” he mumbles.


    With a frown, I tousle his hair, say, “It’s okay,” then serve him a healthy serving of each before gesturing for him to sit and eat.


    I know he doesn’t mean to be difficult. He’s just like any other seven-year-old boy, filled with life and very rambunctious. All he wants is for life to be easy, for life to be normal, for life to be filled with the simple and innocent things. He can’t help but be frustrated by the ins and outs of human existence.


    Watching him eat from the kitchen, I spoon soup into my mouth and carefully spear eggs beneath my fork, all with the knowledge that, were it not for me, my little brother would be on his own. At least in my shadow he has the chance at a somewhat-normal existence.


    He beams as he finishes devouring his breakfast. “Ready!” he says.


    “All right. Let me check on Mama. Then we’ll go.”


    Diego darts toward the door as if he has forgotten he is going to school—full of life and joy.


    At my mother’s doorway, I lean forward, knock, and ask, “Mama? Are you hungry?”


    “Not now,” she replies, her voice filled with exhaustion.


    “All right. I’m taking Diego to school now.”


    “Be careful, Magpie. I love you.”


    “I love you too,” I say.


    I turn to find Diego watching me, his coat already on, his boots upon his feet. “Ready?” he asks.


    “Ready.”


    It has snowed since last night. While walking through the simple parking lot, which holds no vehicles and instead resembles a grotesque garden of dead weeds and asphalt, I consider the dreary sky and the lack of true sunlight it offers. Diego—always the merry one—skips ahead, stamping footprints in frost, while I, with my hands in my pockets, try not to think of what the next week will bring. I fail miserably in the process.


    My birthday, ever looming over my conscience, comes to mind.


    Normally, the day would have been special—joyous, even, for my mother would have made a cake, a special meal, maybe even bought me a present.


    This year?


    I shudder.


    The responsibility that my sixteenth birthday will bring is enormous. With my years of schooling done, and my financial assistance within the Government Assistance System being cut down soon, I will be forced to get a job to support my family. What I’ll do, I can’t be sure. I’d planned on going to school to maybe learn how to program the games I loved to play, but now, with Mama being sick, that’s out of the question.


    Maybe I’ll be a baker, I consider. Or maybe I’ll work on machines.


    Or maybe, I’m loath to think, we’ll all go hungry, and there’ll be nothing that I can do to stop it.


    I pause, close my eyes, then take and expel a deep breath. We have only just left the Sunset Suites, yet I’m already burdened by what my life will bring next.


    If only the power hadn’t gone out.


    If only I could’ve placed.


    If only I could’ve been invited to the competition.


    If only I could’ve won.


    One million dollars wouldn’t have held us over for the rest of our lives, but at least it would have offered us a chance. For Mama to get better, for me to go to school, for Diego to have the childhood he deserved.


    “Sophie!” Diego cries somewhere ahead. “Come on!”


    I open my eyes to find that he is halfway down the street, waving his arms in an effort to beckon me forward.


    “Coming!” I call back.


    Quickening my pace, I catch up to him. It is about this time that I hear the voices and cries of other children as they make their way to Cardinal Elementary, and instantly I am thinking about my mother and what she could be needing.


    “D,” I say, grabbing his shirtsleeve and drawing him to a halt.


    “Ow!” he cries. “That hurts!”


    “Do what I say. Okay?”


    He nods, but I see the glimmer of doubt in his eyes—that fear that I will abandon him to the world and everything in it.


    “I want you to walk the rest of the way by yourself.”


    “What?” he asks, pouting. “Why?”


    “Because you’re a big boy now, and you’ll eventually need to learn to walk on your own. Okay?”


    “But Sophie!”


    “But nothing, Diego.” I let go of his arm. “Look—there’s other kids all around you. Walk with them. Don’t be shy. Make some new friends.”


    “Like you ever have,” he mumbles.


    I don’t respond. I know arguing with him, especially in this situation, will allow him the upper hand and will just give him something to complain about to our mother when we get home. “Go,” I say. “You’ll be late if you don’t.”


    “But—”


    Before I can hear his response, I turn.


    I expect to feel his hands on my lower back—for him to be tugging at my shirt. When I don’t, I keep walking; and when I am doing so, I hesitate, believing he has followed.


    Turning, I find he has started toward the school, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped.


    I sigh, then begin my own trek back home.


    With all that’s been going on in my life, I know giving Diego a sense of and a belief within his independence is crucial to what will come within the next few weeks. My future is looming like a tower in a lost world, so it is not only necessary, but crucial that he learns to do things on his own. Going to school will be one of them, fixing his own food another. Taking care of our mother, in the end, will be his biggest job, which I’m not sure he can handle in the slightest.


    As I sigh, and as I watch the cold air turn my breath blue in front of me, I slide my hands into my pockets. I continue back to the Sunset Suites, all the while knowing that, upon my arrival, I will be forced to view the destruction the Bite has inflicted upon my family.


    If only it weren’t just me.


    If only Mama weren’t sick.


    If only Papa were—


    No.


    I shake my head.


    He was the one who walked out on us when Diego was just a baby—who, with seemingly little cause, left home one night and never came back. I should be angry, not scared, not terrified, not lost.


    Still, I think: if my father were here, maybe he would be able to help care for Mama—or, at the very least, put money aside so she could see a real, capable doctor. While I can’t fault the ones in the slums for trying, they are mostly just well-read—students of the arts who are trying but failing in combating this plague. It’s a wonder Diego and I haven’t contracted the Bite ourselves.


    These thoughts consume me as I head home—as, within less than fifteen minutes, I come to stand at the threshold of the Sunset Suites. Here, I pause; and here, I try my hardest not to tremble in the face of the adversity that is likely to come.


    A figure appears in the distance and raises a hand.


    I, unsure who it is, don’t raise mine in turn.


    In a past life, my mother would have said I was being rude. In my present one, I can’t help but be cautious.


    Within a few short moments, I find that my fear, and the caution that came with it, was unwarranted. It is simply Leon Gray, making his way out of the Sunset Suites.


    “Hey,” the young man says upon his advance.


    “Hey.”


    “What are you doing out here so early?”


    “I had to walk my brother to school,” I say, perching on top of the short dividing concrete fence that separates the Suites from the rest of the properties on the block. “You?”


    “Work.”


    “Oh,” I reply. “What do… you do? If you don’t mind me asking?”


    “I work for the Downtown Bakery.”


    “You don’t really strike me as the baking type.”


    “I don’t,” Leon offers. “I make deliveries.”


    “Oh.”


    “It helps pay the bills. The GAC isn’t much anymore now that I’m sixteen.”


    “I’m sorry.”


    “It’s not your fault,” he replies. “We do what we gotta. Right?”


    “I guess.”


    Leon smiles, though whether he’s trying to offer reassurance or just change the subject I can’t be sure. Rather than decipher it, though, I simply straighten my posture. “Tell your mom I said thanks for the soup.”


    “Like you already haven’t?” Leon asks, still smiling.


    I blush. “Sorry. I kinda overdid it, didn’t I?”


    “Kind of?” He laughs. I somehow manage to smile too despite how embarrassing taking food from another low-income family was. “Hey—don’t sweat it. My mom’s cool. She knows you’re thankful.”


    “I know.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other and peer past the young man. “I should go. Mama’s probably getting hungry by now.”


    “And I’ve gotta get to work,” he replies. “See you later, Sophia.”


    “See ya,” I say.


    We pass by one another silently, the only sounds our footsteps crunching frost. As I hear his footsteps fade, however, I turn to watch him leave.


    I see, in his slow gait and proud posture, what I will look like in a few days’ time; and though I want to be as confident as him, I know the chance of that happening is slim to none.


    Deep down, I am nothing more than a scared little girl afraid to face the world.


    That alone is enough to convince me to turn and tend to my mother.


    I still have time.


    I need to use it while I have the chance.