“Mama,” I say. “You’ve gotta eat.”


    “Magpie.” She sighs. “Please… leave me be.”


    “You know what the doctors said. You’ll get worse if you don’t keep your strength up.”


    Normally, this truth would have been enough to tame the stubborn bull within her heart. Today, however, it’s doing nothing but making her quiet, and me more frustrated by the second.


    I adjust the bowl and spoon within my hands and say, <i>“Mama,”</i> in as stern a voice as possible. <i>“Eat.”</i>


    She doesn’t reply.


    “Mama.” My frustration turns to the desperation of the child in the corner who is unsure how to help their only caretaker. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you eating?”


    “I couldn’t keep it down last night.”


    “What?” I frown.


    “Dinner. It… just kept coming up, Sophia. Over and over again.”


    “You were up last night?” I ask, almost unable to believe my ears.


    She nods. At this angle, dappled gray light filters in through the blinds near her bed. I see, briefly, a tinge of her normal self—her slender but dignified nose, her big eyes that both me and my brother share, her skin, the color of peeled almonds. She appears <i>normal,</i> and for a moment, I am lost to the past. Then she turns her head and it all comes rushing back.


    “I couldn’t keep my food down,” she repeats, as if I didn’t hear it the first time. “Even water was a chore. So… I stopped drinking the water.”


    “You need <i>something</i> in your stomach.”


    “It hurts too much, baby.”


    “I know, Mama. I know.” I set the soup at her bedside and brush her hair away from her damp forehead.


    Rather than relent to my gentle affections, she turns her head away and stares at the brown wallpaper in her room—which, though normally off-putting, is downright grotesque in this light. It’s as if my mother has already been conscripted to her grave, and this bed is the coffin she’s to lie within forever.


    As I try my hardest to determine what to do for her worsening symptoms, I look toward the bowl of soup and glass of water, within which dance motes of light that cause its crystal exterior to glimmer. “I should call a doctor,” I say.


    “You can’t.”


    “Why?” I ask.


    “There’s not enough money.”


    “Yes there is, Mama.”


    “Your birthday—”


    “Don’t worry about my birthday. I’d rather someone come and do something for you than have you lie in bed and… and—”


    She turns to face me.


    Even though the word didn’t slip out, I know she knows what I was going to say. For that, I feel immense shame. I’ve tried to hold it together for so long, yet like all dams filled to the brim, their foundations must eventually break.


    Rather than face her, I rise and make my way toward the doorway. “I’ll call for Doctor Sullivan. He’ll know what to do.”


    My mother doesn’t reply.


    At first, I’m thankful that she doesn’t.


    Then, slowly, I begin to think of what she might be thinking, and my heart breaks all over again.


    I don’t need Doctor Sullivan here to tell me what’s going on.


    My mother is dying.


    And there is nothing I can do about it.


    I consider this thought with fear in my heart as I step through the threshold into the living room. Desperate for answers, but afraid to receive them at the same time, I come to a halt and dwell on what all the doctor could say, both on the phone and here in person.


    It is here that I realize something:


    Doctor Sullivan has always been kind and caring. For this alone I should not fear calling him. Yet, for some reason, I do. I chalk this up to the fact that, as of now, there is no definitive proof that my mother’s condition is really as dire as I think it is.


    <i>She could just be stubborn,</i>


    my conscience offers, <i>and you’re really worried for nothing.</i>


    This would not surprise me in the slightest. My mother has always been a very strong-willed person. Unmovable at times, she has shown herself to be like a mountain: withstanding the test of time, weathering each and every storm. The only difference in this case is that this is no ordinary storm, and there is absolutely no shelter to speak of.


    I sigh.


    Though the doctor is only a phone call away, I find solace in the fact that I do not know how sick she is. However—I know it’s only a matter of time before this feeling becomes dangerous, and for that reason, I mentally prepare myself for what is to come.


    After closing my mother’s door to a mere crack, I pace my way across the apartment until I come to stand beside the old corded phone within the kitchen.


    “Here goes nothing,” I whisper.


    I lift the receiver, dial, then allow my arm to bring the handset to cradle the side of my head.


    I wait for the rings to begin, then close my eyes as they start.


    <i>One,</i> I think. <i>Two. Three.</i>


    <i>One, two, three.</i>


    <i>One, two—</i>


    A click sounds. Then a man’s voice is asking, “Hello?”


    “Hello?” I ask. “Is this Doctor Sullivan?”


    “Yes,” the man says. “This is he.”


    “My name is Sophia. Sophia Garza. You’ve… treated my mother in the past.”


    “Ah. Bianca. Yes. I remember.”


    “She’s very sick,” I say. “Throwing up. Not eating. I… was wondering if you could come by and… well…” I swallow. “Do something.”


    “There is not much I can do against the Bite, dear. You know this as well as I do.”


    “I know. It’s just… I don’t want her to get any worse, and, well… I know there are medicines that can help with nausea. I can pay… if that’s why you’re hesitant about coming.”


    “It’s not that I’m hesitant, dear. It’s just… like I said, there’s not much I can—”


    “Do. I know.” I tighten my hold on the handset until it’s physically painful for my fingers. “Please. Come. If only for my sake of mind.”


    The doctor sighs. A sound enters my ear, much like papers shuffling upon a desk, before he clears his throat. “Is your brother home?”


    “He’s at school.”


    “Good. I would rather he not see that I’m there. He would worry, you know?”


    “I know.”


    “All right. I’ll be by within the hour.”


    “Thank you, Doctor, sir. See you soon.”


    I only realize I did not say goodbye after I’ve already hung the phone up.


    Shortly thereafter, the waiting game begins.


    I’ve never been good with time, nor have I ever been very patient. It is for this reason that my heart thunders and my mind reels as I wait for a knock to come at the door. I know it will be a while, as Doctor Sullivan lives a distance away, and even his car will not conquer the distance in but a few moments. It is for this reason that I struggle to keep from succumbing to juvenile behaviors. Somehow, I’m able to keep from biting my nails… or chewing on my hair… or balling my hands into fists until the blood shrinks away from the vessels in my fingers. How, I’m not sure. Sheer will is one possibility, foolhardy determination another. In the end, it doesn’t matter. Doctor Sullivan is coming, and I have to secure the funds that will allow him to treat my mother.


    With that in mind, I turn and make my way to the bookshelf. From it I pull a single, worn hardback—which, though inconsequential in appearance, holds the lifeblood of my family.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    As I flip the book open, much to the aging spine’s protests, I examine the bills in the hollowed-out pages and try not to sigh.


    I’m not normally a vain person. Really, I’m not. But knowing the extra money in here was, at one point, meant for my birthday is a gut-punch to my conscience. It should have been going toward clothes for my job application process, not my mother’s health.


    I ball my hands into fists.


    She shouldn’t be sick.


    She shouldn’t be bedridden.


    She shouldn’t be almost—


    A knock comes at the door, startling me from thought.


    I frown.


    Has Doctor Sullivan already arrived?


    The thought that he could have crossed the few short blocks that separate the Sunset Suites from the only refinished townhouses in the slums so quickly causes me to freeze up. I wait, instinctively believing that I may have just been hearing things. However—when the knock comes again, I scramble to gather his usual fee from the book, then make my way across the apartment to the door.


    I brace myself for whatever fate he is to deliver before opening the door.


    “Hello, Sophia,” the man says, allowing his arms to fall slack at his sides as he looks down to consider me.


    “Hello,” I reply, craning my head up to look at him. “Thank you for coming.”


    “It’s my pleasure.” He clears his throat and peers back at his car in the parking lot. “May I come in?”


    Immediately, I consider the state of the apartment. Normally, it would’ve been clean—<i>immaculate</i>


    in comparison to how it is now. But with Mama sick and Diego’s care falling exclusively on me, I often forget to do simple errands such as sweep and mop. This torments me as I step aside to let him into our home, but I’m able to push most of my guilt down and close the door behind him.


    “Where is she?” Doctor Sullivan asks.


    “This way.”


    I lead him across the apartment with trepidation I didn’t know I’d experience. Scared, witless, over what he may find, and over what he may say, I attempt to stagger my pace to slow the ultimate reveal that will come in but a few moments, though it is really no use. The apartment is small, the space between us minimal. It is like we are crossing a river I have deemed an ocean—and because of this, I find myself struggling to draw air into my lungs.


    When we finally come to the doorway, I swallow, lean forward, then knock. “Mama? Doctor Sullivan is here.”


    She doesn’t respond.


    “Mama?” I ask, unsure if she has fallen asleep or if she is just refusing to answer. “Mama?”


    “Let me,” the doctor says.


    With a nod, I step back, allowing the man to knock first before entering.


    When he closes the door behind him, I feel as though one part of my life has just been taken away from me.


    I cross my arms over my chest and try my hardest not to succumb to panic. Before, it had seemed juvenile, this feeling of mine—this cruel and undeniable frustration. Now it is as real as the sun, the moon, and the stars themselves, homing in on me as if it is an asteroid meant to hit the godforsaken Earth.


    I couldn’t have been more paranoid if I tried.


    Listening, I try my hardest to hear the sounds coming from inside the room. I hear voices, hushed and urgent, and then the sound of the mattress creaking. When silence finally arrives, it is as though someone has just snuffed the candle that burns brightly for my mother’s existence. Tears threaten to burst from my eyes as I think of Diego and what all he would say if he walked in here and saw the doctor tending to my mother.


    <i>Why is Doctor Sullivan here?</i>


    he would ask.


    <i>To take care of Mama,</i> I’d reply.


    <i>But </i>why?


    Why? <i>Why?</i>


    Just <i>what </i>would I tell him when it came down to it all—when, in the grand scheme of things, I could lie no more?


    I shiver in the cold permeating the apartment since the doctor’s entry. Burying my fingers under my arms in an attempt to warm them, I begin pacing to inspire warmth within my person.


    The bed creaks.


    I come to a halt.


    A voice bids my mother farewell. Then the door is opening, and Doctor Sullivan is stepping out.


    “Doctor?” I ask. “How is she?”


    He shuts the door, then turns to face me.


    The look on his face says it all.


    I am immediately overwhelmed by emotion. Tears that have been threatening to break free finally do, and a short, only-just-restrained sob parts from my throat.


    “She is in the advanced stages of the disease,” the doctor says, his voice sad and his demeanor sullen.


    “How? I mean… <i>why?</i>”


    “She is losing body mass, Sophia, and is displaying signs of muscle atrophy from lack of movement. Her color is pale, her eyes are yellowed, her veins pronounced and her breathing shallow. If she had access to better-equipped facilities, then… <i>maybe</i> she might have a chance.”


    “But in her current state?” I ask, finally confronting the one question I have been afraid to ask since before the doctor even arrived.


    “She has maybe a month or so to live.”


    There is little I can do but cry.


    “I should leave you be,” Doctor Sullivan says, obviously uncomfortable with the news he has just delivered. He turns to make his way toward the door.


    “Wait,” I say, sniffling as I start into the kitchen. “Your payment.”


    He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that, Sophia,” he says, raising his hand to stop me. “Use the money to ease your mother’s passing.”


    I come to a halt. Unable to face him, but knowing I have to ask this, I say, “What can I do? To make it easier?”


    “Beef broth, water, whatever solids she can keep down, and rest. Don’t let her overextend herself. She is only going to get worse from here on out.”


    “Okay.”


    Though I refuse to turn and look at him, I can feel Doctor Sullivan’s eyes on me—watching me, waiting for me to say something further.


    When I don’t, he begins walking.


    The door opens, then closes.


    I am left with a reality cruel and uncertain.


    What, I wonder, will happen within the next month? Maybe two? And what will happen after that?


    There is no way to tell.


    As the reality of the situation begins to set in—as I realize, for the first time since Doctor Sullivan’s declaration, that I will be truly alone—I walk over to my bed, collapse atop it, then close my eyes and cry.


    I don’t know how long I lie here. It feels like years, though in reality, it’s likely only been a few hours. Still, my grief is ever-present, washing over me like a tidal wave over the lands of my consciousness—coming, then going; coming, then going again. I’ve cried so hard that I can’t cry anymore and have sobbed so much that my lungs ache.


    It feels like this will never end.


    But I realize: it has to.


    Regardless of how I feel about my mother’s impending doom, or about what I will do come time it occurs, there is still the matter of picking Diego up from school.


    Sniffling, I roll over to look at the clock on my desk.


    Diego will be out of school within the next forty-five minutes. Somehow, I have to not only compose myself within that short amount of time but make my way down to Cardinal Elementary to pick him up, all without letting him know something is wrong.


    If he even catches hint that our mother is dying, and that there is nothing we can do about it…


    I shake my head.


    No.


    I can’t—<i>won’t—</i>allow Diego to find out about our mother’s condition. It would devastate him. Not only that, it would leave me in a position I’m not ready to be in. Better I suffer now in silence than to confide in my little brother and destroy everything he knows and loves.


    With that thought in mind, I rise, make my way into the bathroom, then run the hot water to wash my face of the tears that have reddened my cheeks.


    Once that is over, and once that I look as though I have not been crying, I don my coat and exit our modest home.


    Outside—in the cold winter, which feels even colder now that my life has inexplicably changed—I slide my hands into my pockets and cross the Sunset Suites’ parking lot with resolve I know is born of desperation rather than determination. Here, my thoughts run rampant—wild in their intent to destroy everything I know and love. I try to shake them free, if only to allow myself the peace the eerily silent neighborhood offers before the primary school lets out, but I find they come anyway.


    My first thought is of what will happen once Mama perishes to the Bite, my second over how I will house and feed Diego. With no nearby relatives to speak of, we’d end up living in a halfway home, slaving away every bit of currency for room and board. The idea is haunting. The possibility, however, is the living embodiment of hell. I try to drift into calmer thoughts, if only to assuage myself from the guilt I feel over not being able to do anything, but find myself growing even angrier in the process.


    I instantly think of my father.


    If he were here, Mama wouldn’t have had to work in the factories.


    If he were here, Mama wouldn’t have gotten sick.


    If he were here, Mama wouldn’t be dying.


    If he were here, Mama would have a chance.


    The rage I feel is uninhibited, the hate unimaginable. It burns a hole through my heart and clouds my mind of better judgment. I want nothing more than to scream, but I know that, deep down, it will do no good. It’ll just draw unnecessary attention and question from people when I would rather just be left alone.


    When I come to stand just across the street from Cardinal Elementary, I seat myself atop a bench that was once used as a bus stop and wait for the closing bell to ring.


    It seems like it takes forever, but when it finally does ring, students of all ages come pouring out the front doors. Among them is my little brother, who immediately spots me and gives me a dirty look.


    I sigh but wave him forward, already knowing he is mad at me because I made him walk the last of the way to school alone and not because of anything else.


    <i>Don’t let it get to you,</i> my consciousness offers. <i>Stay calm.</i>


    Though I intend to do just that, his sour expression as he steps forward immediately sets me on edge.


    “What?” I ask, trying my hardest to keep the bitter edge out of my voice. “Why are you looking at me like that?”


    He says nothing but instead begins to walk up the street without being pressured to.


    “Diego,” I say, attempting to match his quick pace. “Please don’t be mad at me.”


    He doesn’t respond.


    I let loose a heavy sigh, knowing I have been caught in his nefarious web of silence. This treatment, cruel as it happens to be, at least allows me to escape any unnecessary question. Whether or not he can tell something is wrong is up for debate. Regardless, I try not to dwell on this as we continue to make our way home.


    As we draw not only near the Sunset Suites, but the nexus of what will soon become our place of torment, I take note of a dark car idling directly in front of our apartment.


    “What in the—” I start.


    “Sophie,” Diego says, cutting me off before I can finish my thought. “Who is that?”


    “I don’t know.” I take hold of his sleeve and pull him back a few steps. “Stay behind me.”


    “But—”


    “But nothing.”


    He doesn’t argue as we draw near. Rather, he remains quiet, leaving me to bask in the question of what these people—especially these people in a <i>black car—</i>are doing here.


    Are they here to take my mother away?


    I consider this as we round the car.


    Before I can step toward our apartment, the vehicle’s driver’s-side door opens, cutting us off.


    “Hey!” I say. “What gives?”


    The man, dressed in a black suit with white trim, turns to regard me behind a pair of thick black sunglasses. “Are you Sophia Garza? Otherwise known as <i>Blackbird99</i>?”


    “Yes,” I say, taken aback by his use of my <i>Dystopian </i>username. “Who are—”


    A glint of light shining upon a badge catches my attention.


    I narrow my eyes.


    I pause.


    I stare.


    Reflecting the light back at me is a gold crown—one whose purpose in my life has been not only to entertain but haunt me.


    “Sophia Garza,” the man says. “My name is Victor Crew, a moderator of Kingsman Online Gaming. I’m here to formally invite you to the <i>Dystopia</i> regional championships.”


    I can hardly believe my ears.


    All I can ask is, “What?”