《ALT CONTROL ENTER》


 Chapter 1

    I have never been one to give in. This is why, today, I am determined to win.


    With my joystick held firmly in my right hand and the fingers on my left arranged on my keyboard, I gaze through my virtual reality goggles and wait for the clock to count down the beginning of the match.


    Five, I think. Four.


    ¡°Three,¡± I whisper. ¡°Two.¡±


    One, the game displays.


    A cannon fires, and me and twenty-four other players are randomly loaded into the world of Dystopia.


    Fortunately for me, the game has spawned me into a location that is bound to be filled with resources.


    Unfortunately, that location happens to be the Ashen City.


    Cursing, I take a slow, deep breath as I realize my predicament¡ªas I watch the airborne debris the city is named for rain down around me. My teeth sink into my lower lip. My eye twitches. My fingers instinctively tighten around my joystick. A blossoming panic fills me as I consider my surroundings, and though I want nothing more than to pause and consider my options, I don¡¯t have time to dawdle. This early in the game, everyone who happens to be in the immediate area will be scrambling for resources. Any sound, including what will eventually be gunfire, will attract attention, and if the wrong kind of monster is in the area¡­


    I shake my head.


    I can¡¯t afford to freak myself out. Sure¡ªI¡¯m a bit uneasy, considering the Ashen could be right around the corner, but I¡¯ve faced worse before. Just not in a ranked match.


    A ranked match, my conscience reminds me, that could change your family¡¯s lives forever.


    With a nod, and several careful breaths, I flex my fingers around my joystick and begin to move my character into the city.


    The ash falling around me is mesmerizing. Beautifully rendered by my computer¡¯s graphics card and glistening in the faint gray light piercing through the clouds, it descends before me like snow in a desolate world as I wander in search of weapons, armor, and anything else that could possibly be of use. While walking, and surveying my surroundings, I scan up and down, left to right, at the high places where computer glitches could have dropped random guns and the low corners where ammo might be hiding, all with the intent of surviving.


    At this point in the game, it¡¯s crucial to find something to defend myself with, even if it¡¯s something as simple as a hunting knife. But going into houses¡ªwhere most of the loot is likely to spawn¡ªspells its own dangers. Who knows who or what might be waiting or, worse, hear my entry as I break in?


    I am just thinking this over when gunfire cracks in the distance.


    A flash of red text appears on the side of the screen a moment later, displaying those two infamous words no one wants to hear.


    Player eliminated.


    I grimace.


    For someone like me¡ªwho is desperate to make my way into the regional championships for the chance at a one-million-dollar prize¡ªI can only imagine what having that chance taken away must feel like.


    In an ordinary world, some would have considered Dystopia just a game¡ªsomething that kids played to pass the time or to channel unwarranted aggression or angst. But for me, it¡¯s a chance to potentially lift my family out of poverty.


    This notion, and the haste at which the game is already progressing, compels me to do the one thing I have been hesitant to do: enter a nearby house.


    I advance slowly, carefully, watching my surroundings out my peripheral, listening to any sound that could alert me to danger.


    When I reach the door and find it unlocked, I think I have it made.


    What I find inside is nothing short of a goldmine.


    A semi-automatic rifle, bulletproof armor, a magnified scope, and a single grenade greets me almost immediately as I turn to face the procedurally generated living room.


    ¡°Bingo,¡± I say, stepping forward.


    Something appears out the corner of my eye


    I duck instantly, then spin to face the living room windows.


    Someone is outside. Whether or not they know I¡¯m in the house I¡¯ve yet to determine, but if I don¡¯t hurry, they¡¯ll likely discover me.


    After sneaking forward and grabbing the items, I roll my thumb over the buttons arranged on the side of my joystick and click the option that opens my character¡¯s inventory.


    I equip the items.


    The door opens.


    Spinning, I raise my gun, only to find that the player character is wielding a knife.


    Panic, and a bit of desperation, consumes me.


    I fire my weapon.


    The player goes down.


    Then I run.


    Bleeding damage will finish the player off. That is why I didn¡¯t eliminate them. The problem now is I¡¯ve just discharged my weapon, and monsters and player characters will soon be zooming in on my location to take me out.


    I burst into a quick sprint, using the shadows of the buildings to mask my advance as I make my way toward the junction in the road. There will be places to hide¡ªplaces I could technically wait out the early parts of the match to let the more desperate players weed themselves out¡ªbut I also know I can¡¯t hide forever. The game will eventually force us into the center of the world by spawning more and more monsters into the map, and when that happens, there¡¯ll be nothing I can do.


    As I reach the crossroads, I am just about to round the corner when I grind to a halt.


    Ahead, there are Ashen.


    The zombie-like creatures with their gray skin and red eyes immediately focus their attention upon me as the sound of my footfalls echo along the concrete beneath me.


    I swear.


    They moan.


    Then they begin to move.


    I can outrun them. They¡¯re too slow to actually catch me individually, but if they somehow manage to back me into a corner¡ªor worse: a dead end¡ªI¡¯ll be screwed.


    For that reason, I don¡¯t hesitate.


    I equip the grenade, draw its pin, wheel my arm back, then throw.


    Bolting down the street, I don¡¯t bother to mask the sound of my footsteps¡ªknowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that the sound of a grenade exploding in the city will draw the attention of everything, living and not. Breath tight in my throat, fingers tensing from the pressure I¡¯m imposing upon them, I wait for the grenade to go off and inspire chaos upon the map.


    A moment passes, then two.


    I have just rushed into a nearby alley when the explosion occurs.


    It rockets the area in a cacophony of sound, causing windows to shatter and the rumbling beads in my joystick to quiver. The Ashen, whose moans had once been a persistent noise behind me, have quieted, and all that remains is silence.


    It won¡¯t be long before something happens.


    Once more ignoring my need for caution, I burst into a sprint. I run through the alley and tear into a side street, only to spot the river that will lead to the forests beyond.


    I slam my fingers on the keyboard, drawing my character to a halt.


    It is here that I come to stand before the woods all players know and fear¡ªwho only with the best weapons and armor enter its depths to avoid other player characters that inhabit the world.


    Bushes begin to shift when I am about to turn and make my way along the river¡¯s edge.


    I swallow, exhale, stare.


    Then I see it: the Lobo, all fur and claws and teeth, raising its ghastly lupine head from the bushes to growl at me.


    I raise my gun.


    It shrieks, then launches itself toward me.


    I pull the trigger on my joystick in an effort to cut it down¡ª


    ¡ªonly for the lights to go off, the screen to suddenly go black, and the furnace channeling heat into the apartment to groan to a stop.


    ¡°No!¡± I scream, tapping my keyboard and pulling the trigger on my joystick. ¡°No!¡±


    Regardless of my frantic attempts to bring the game back to life, there¡¯s absolutely nothing I can do.


    A rolling blackout has occurred.


    The power has gone out.


    And I have just effectively lost my last chance to secure my qualifications in the Dystopia leaderboards for the regional championships.


    I want to scream again. I want to cry. I want to throw the virtual reality goggles at the wall¡ªbut it won¡¯t fix my problem. It won¡¯t make the power come back on.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    It won¡¯t heal my sick mother.


    As I pull the virtual reality goggles from my head, tugging along with it strands of baby black hairs from my temple, a sigh passes from my lips. My heart begins to silence its thunderous drum in my chest.


    ¡°Sophia!¡± I hear my mother weakly call. ¡°Sophia!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m coming, Mama!¡± I call back.


    I don¡¯t want to move from my seat. I want to sulk in my defeat, as premature and unfair as it happens to be. But at the same time, I can¡¯t let my mother go without attention.


    With that in mind, I rise from my office chair and turn to make my way across the living room of our one-bedroom apartment.


    My approach is cut off by the sound of my seven-year-old brother¡¯s feet padding across the hardwood flooring as he rounds the room divider that separates his space from the rest of the apartment. ¡°There¡¯s no heat coming out of the vents,¡± he says.


    ¡°Yeah, I know.¡±


    ¡°Is Mama gonna be okay?¡±


    ¡°Mama will be fine, Diego. Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯ll take care of her.¡±


    He frowns once more, obviously unsure. I reach out to tousle his hair only to tilt my head toward the single bedroom in the distance, whose door is open but whose interior is shrouded in darkness. ¡°Give me a minute to make sure she¡¯s okay. Then I¡¯ll make us something to eat.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± he says.


    After taking a deep breath, I turn and head toward the bedroom.


    My mother is lying in bed, just as she has been for the last six months. With three blankets and a comforter pulled up to her chin and a portable heater resting nearby, she appears to be waiting out a storm the likes of which we have never seen. Her eyes are open, wide and alert. Her body is trembling, cold and feverish. And worse yet: she¡¯s always short of breath¡ªhas been since she took ill all those months ago¡ªand the local doctors can¡¯t explain it. Of course, they can hardly do a thing, not without the medications the government offers only to the wealthy.


    ¡°Sophia?¡± my mother asks, drawing me from my thoughts. ¡°Why is it so cold?¡±


    ¡°The power went out, Mama.¡± Stepping forward, I part her sweaty hair from her brow. I consider the glass of water at her side and frown. ¡°Why haven¡¯t you drank your water?¡±


    ¡°Too¡­ cold,¡± she manages through a series of shivers.


    I sigh. ¡°Here. Drink some.¡±


    She starts to argue¡ªat least, at first, telling me no and I¡¯ll be okay¡ªbut I manage to prop her head up and get her to swallow a few sips before she refuses to drink any more.


    When I finally lay her head down, she looks me in the eyes and says, ¡°Will you go?¡±


    ¡°Where, Mama?¡±


    ¡°Mr. Scott¡¯s apartment?¡±


    ¡°Please, Mama,¡± I say. ¡°Don¡¯t make me. Mr. Scott is so¡­ so¡­ mean.¡±


    ¡°But I¡¯m so cold, Sophia.¡±


    I close my eyes, defeat clouding my heart. ¡°Okay,¡± I say, unable to refuse my mother in her weakened state. ¡°I¡¯ll go.¡±


    My mother closes her eyes, though whether she¡¯s fallen back asleep I can¡¯t be sure. She¡¯s still trembling, but even then, that doesn¡¯t mean she¡¯s awake.


    I turn and make my way out of the bedroom without so much as another look back.


    Diego cuts me off halfway. ¡°Are you gonna¡ª¡± he starts.


    But I cut him off by saying, ¡°I have to go.¡±


    ¡°Where?¡±


    ¡°Mr. Scott¡¯s apartment.¡±


    He frowns. ¡°Can I go with you?¡±


    ¡°No. You can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Why¡ª¡±


    ¡°Because you need to stay here in case Mama needs you.¡±


    His frown deepens. ¡°I want to go,¡± he says.


    ¡°One of us has to stay here,¡± I say, lowering myself to his level to look into his beady brown eyes. ¡°You really don¡¯t want to go talk to mean Mr. Scott, do you?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he admits, dropping his eyes.


    ¡°All right.¡± I pat his head. ¡°I¡¯ll be right back.¡±


    My younger brother watches me with sad eyes as I don my coat and make my way out the door, his gaze ever-so-haunting. There¡¯s literally nothing I can do to alleviate his concerns. I know he feels lost when I leave, especially with our mother being so sick, but I can¡¯t allow her to suffer¡ªeven if most of her discomfort is caused by her reoccurring fever. It just wouldn¡¯t be fair, especially since this illness doesn¡¯t operate in the same manner others in the past have.


    That is what I tell myself as I head down the block of single-bedroom apartment units toward the main office, which Mr. Scott has converted into a multiple-bedroom suite. My teeth chatter from the relentless cold, while my fingers find solace under my arms¡ªthe only warmth that seems to exist in this world. The dreary gray sky is filled with clouds only a shade darker, and I briefly wonder if it will snow.


    I shake my head.


    Even if it did snow, I wouldn¡¯t get the chance to enjoy it. I¡¯d be stuck inside, taking care of Diego and my mother, waiting for the power to come back on.


    Upon reaching Mr. Scott¡¯s door, I take a moment to consider what I¡¯ll say to the mean middle-aged man, then lean forward and knock.


    It is as if he expects me. The door is open instantly, and his eyes¡ªcold and mean and blue like the darkest waves of the ocean¡ªare watching me. ¡°I already know the power is out,¡± he says. ¡°What do you want?¡±


    ¡°Sir,¡± I reply, attempting to swallow my nerves down. ¡°My name is Sophia Lynn Garza. The one from apartment 7? I¡¯ve¡­ come to ask if you have any extra hand warmers.¡±


    ¡°Hand warmers?¡± he scoffs. ¡°Why do you think I¡¯d have hand warmers for someone who hasn¡¯t paid their rent?¡±


    ¡°Sir, we¡¯re still waiting for the GAC¡ª¡±


    ¡°Excuses, excuses.¡± He shakes his head. ¡°That¡¯s all I ever hear from the people here. Excuses.¡±


    ¡°Please, sir. I know we haven¡¯t turned in the GAC yet, but please¡ªspare a few hand warmers. Even one would go a long way in helping my poor sick moth¡ª¡±


    ¡°Go away,¡± the man says as he starts to close the door.


    I reach out to press my hand against the wood.


    He narrows his eyes once more. ¡°You¡¯d do best to get your hand off my property.¡±


    ¡°I¡ª¡±


    Immediately after I draw my hand away, he slams the door.


    There is little I can do but pull in a breath and close my eyes.


    Standing there, I curse the world and all it¡¯s worth. It isn¡¯t our fault that the Government Assistance Checks haven¡¯t come in yet. They¡¯re always slow to arrive, especially in the slums of the city. How can I control what someone else does?


    Someone clears their throat when I¡¯m just about to leave.


    I jump, startled.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± the voice says. ¡°I couldn¡¯t help overhearing.¡±


    I turn to face the speaker.


    The young man, who can¡¯t possibly be much older than my own fifteen years, watches me with a pair of golden eyes that remind me of honey. Concern lights his dark features. He purses his full lips.


    ¡°Sorry?¡± I ask, unsure if I¡¯ve heard right.


    ¡°I was just coming by to ask about the power when I heard¡­ well¡­¡±


    ¡°Everything?¡± I frown.


    He nods. ¡°Yeah. Everything.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I was just trying to get some hand warmers for my mother.¡±


    ¡°I have some.¡±


    I blink. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I said I have some,¡± he replies with a smile. ¡°I could give them to you, if you like?¡±


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t possibly impose.¡±


    ¡°Why not? Your mother¡¯s sick. Right?¡±


    ¡°How do you¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s no secret that she¡¯s fallen ill. Most of the people in the slums have the Bite now.¡±


    I shiver¡ªnot from the cold, but the name. The Bite. Though thought to have been caused by mosquitoes, the local doctors haven¡¯t been able to find a source. It¡¯s harsh, long-lasting, and deadly, which is exactly what this illness is. Which is exactly why I sought out Mr. Scott.


    Which is why I¡¯m considering asking this stranger for help.


    ¡°You¡¯re¡­ Leon Gray,¡± I say after a moment. ¡°Right?¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    Then it comes back to me¡ªour time in primary school together. We¡¯d been in the same grade but never the same classes. Each of us had different teachers, different schedules, and though our paths had crossed only a few times, it¡¯s been well over a year since I¡¯ve seen him in person. Why, I can¡¯t be sure. From what I understand, he only lives a few units up from us.


    Swallowing, I clear my throat, only to offer a meek, ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°About the hand warmers? Yeah. Come on. I¡¯ll take you to my place.¡±


    Though I barely know him and wouldn¡¯t risk following a stranger unless in the most extreme circumstances, I¡¯m desperate. Besides¡ªhis parents are bound to be home. It¡¯s a Sunday. The Grays would¡¯ve been at church this morning, praying for friends and family and a better tomorrow. Surely they¡¯ll be waiting for us when we get there. Right?


    I shake the thought from my head and allow Leon Gray to lead me a few units down from my own. When we come to apartment 10, he opens the door and calls, ¡°Mom!¡±


    ¡°Yes, sugar?¡± a pleasant voice replies. ¡°Where are you? And be quiet. Your father¡¯s taking a nap.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m here, Mom. And okay,¡± he says as he stamps the frost off his boots. I do the same simply out of courtesy.


    ¡°Do you have someone with you?¡± A woman peeks around the corner. She steps out to reveal the dough she is stirring within a simple ceramic bowl. ¡°Oh. Hello there, dear.¡±


    ¡°Hello,¡± I manage, lowering my eyes.


    ¡°Is she one of your friends, Lee-Lee?¡±


    ¡°We used to go to school together,¡± Leon replies, the hint of annoyance in his voice likely caused by the juvenile nickname. He turns to regard me for a moment before returning his attention to his mother. ¡°This is Sophia Garza. From apartment 7.¡±


    ¡°Oh! Miss Garza! How¡¯s your mama doing, honey?¡±


    ¡°Not well.¡±


    ¡°I brought her here to give her some hand warmers.¡± Leon starts into the house. ¡°Is that okay?¡±


    ¡°Her mama¡¯s sick, honey. Of course it¡¯s okay.¡± Mrs. Gray watches me with sad, sympathetic eyes. ¡°Go get her the hand warmers, Lee-Lee. And Sophie, dear, you come here for a minute.¡±


    I nod and move forward as Leon disappears into the depths of the apartment, which is sectioned off into separate rooms with dividers like our own. His absence, brief as it happens to be, is unsettling. I already feel like a stranger here. What could his mother possibly want?


    In the small kitchen, she turns to face me. ¡°Do you need anything?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I reply. ¡°Just the hand warmers.¡±


    ¡°I mean¡­ do you need food, child? Someone to help you cook?¡±


    ¡°No, ma¡¯am. I don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure? Because I can help you cook something if you need it. We have to go out front and use the burn barrel to cook the biscuits, but I¡¯d be happy to send some home for you and your little brother.¡±


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°I have no way to repay you.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no need to repay me, honey.¡± The woman laughs and sets the bowl of mixed dough down. ¡°We¡¯ve got to stick together here at the Sunset Suites. Am I right?¡±


    I nod, though hesitantly at that.


    About this time, Leon has returned with the hand warmers. He holds the packages carefully, as if any slight movement will cause the chemicals inside to activate. ¡°These should help until the power comes back on,¡± he says.


    ¡°They better hurry up and fix it,¡± Mrs. Gray says. ¡°Otherwise we¡¯re going to have a whole lot of people freezing tonight.¡±


    I don¡¯t even want to think about that. Rather, I reach out, accept the hand warmers, and say, ¡°Thank you, Mrs. Gray. I¡¯ll come back for the biscuits.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll walk you out,¡± Leon says.


    He leads me back into the cool winter, and unlike what I expect, he walks with me toward my apartment unit¡ªhis hands in his jacket pockets and his eyes set to the ground below him.


    ¡°So,¡± he says, after a moment¡¯s hesitation. ¡°What¡¯ve you been doing to pass the time now that you¡¯ve been out of school?¡±


    ¡°Honestly?¡± I ask, turning to face him. ¡°Gaming.¡±


    ¡°Which one?¡±


    ¡°Dystopia.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡± Leon smiles. ¡°I had to cut off my internet because my family needed my GAC.¡±


    ¡°I feel guilty that I haven¡¯t been giving my mom mine.¡± A twinge of embarrassment flutters about my ribcage. ¡°I mean, I use most of it to buy food for me and Diego. The little bit I have squirreled away was to keep the internet on and to upgrade my hardware, but you know how long that takes to save.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I know.¡±


    ¡°Honestly, Leon¡­¡± I close my eyes and sigh. ¡°I wanted to place.¡±


    ¡°Place?¡±


    ¡°In the regionals. So I could maybe win the million.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± He frowns. ¡°Wait. You said wanted to?¡±


    ¡°Today was the last day to place in ranked. My computer went out during the blackout. During one of my qualifying matches.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± I can tell from the way his eyes fall that he¡¯s unsure what to say. ¡°I can only imagine what that must¡¯ve felt like.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing I can do about it,¡± I reply. I shove my hands into my pockets alongside the hand warmers as we come to stand beside my apartment and lift my eyes to face him. ¡°I mean¡­ being out of school and all¡­ I thought I¡¯d try, you know? It¡¯s not like I can go get a job until I turn sixteen, and that doesn¡¯t happen until next week.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to explain yourself to me. You do what you can to help your family.¡±


    ¡°It just doesn¡¯t seem like it¡¯s enough.¡±


    There¡¯s nothing either of us can say in response to that.


    I reach up to run my hand through my long dark hair, then reach for the doorknob. ¡°Thank you for the hand warmers. I¡¯ll come back after I¡¯ve tended to my mother.¡±


    ¡°All right,¡± Leon says as I push the door open. ¡°Oh, hey. Sophia?¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t lose hope. Okay?¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± I reply.


    I close the door behind him.


    In a world like this, it¡¯s hard to have hope sometimes. It¡¯s even harder to keep going.

 Chapter 2

    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¡ªas 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¡ª¡±


    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¡ª


    Lives, changed¡ª


    Futures, fulfilled¡ª


    My mother could see a doctor. Diego could go to a better school. And me? Well, I could take care of my family forever¡ªor, 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¡ªthat 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¡ªof squeezing, of running my thumb along her sweaty palm and thinking on what tomorrow may bring¡ªI 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¡ªto drown my worries in the soft pillow sheet and delicate blankets surrounding me¡ªbut 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¡ªit¡¯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¡ª


    I shake my head.


    No. I can¡¯t think about that¡ªnot 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¡ªthe 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¡ªfull 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¡ªalways the merry one¡ªskips 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¡ªjoyous, 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¡ªthat 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¡ªthere¡¯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¡ª¡±


    Before I can hear his response, I turn.


    I expect to feel his hands on my lower back¡ªfor 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¡ª


    No.


    I shake my head.


    He was the one who walked out on us when Diego was just a baby¡ªwho, 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¡ªor, 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¡ªstudents 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¡ªas, 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¡ªdon¡¯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.

 Chapter 3

    ¡°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¡ªher 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¡ªwhich, 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¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about my birthday. I¡¯d rather someone come and do something for you than have you lie in bed and¡­ and¡ª¡±


    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¡ªI 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¡ª</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¡ª¡±


    ¡°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¡ªwhich, 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


    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¡ªwhen 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¡ª<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¡ªand 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¡ªthis 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¡ªwhen, 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¡ªwatching 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¡ªas I realize, for the first time since Doctor Sullivan¡¯s declaration, that I will be truly alone¡ªI 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¡ªcoming, 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¡ª<i>won¡¯t¡ª</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¡ªin the cold winter, which feels even colder now that my life has inexplicably changed¡ªI 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¡ªwild 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¡ª¡± 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¡ª¡±


    ¡°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¡ªespecially these people in a <i>black car¡ª</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¡±


    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¡ªone 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?¡±