My Mother Called Me a Thief While My Brother Was Dying

Captain Paulson laughed.

"Kid, I've seen this routine a hundred times. Drink it, pass it, and if nothing comes out, you're free to go."

"There's no time!"

I shot to my feet, but two guards shoved me back down by the shoulders.

"My brother is going to die! He's only eighteen!"

"Enough!" Paulson flicked a glance at his men.

One guard clamped my jaw open. The other tipped the cup and poured.

I thrashed, but more than half of it went down.

I collapsed over the table, fingers clawing at my throat.

All that came up was bile.

"That'll do it. Wait for nature to take its course." Paulson dusted off his hands. "Lock her in the back room. Come get me when she's done."

The door slammed shut.

I crumpled to the floor, checked the time, and couldn't stop shaking.

Too late. It was going to be too late.

No. I couldn't just sit here and wait to die.

Before the laxatives kicked in, I dragged myself up and scanned the room.

The door was bolted. The only way out was a small window, set high on the wall.

If I stacked the junk in the corner, I could reach it.

Then my stomach seized.

The drugs were already working.

I pressed one arm against my gut and bit down hard, pulling myself upward.

Every movement sent a knife twisting through my abdomen.

My fingers had just curled over the window ledge when someone grabbed my ankle.

My mother's shriek tore through the room behind me.

"Somebody stop her! She's trying to run!"

She lunged and locked both hands around my ankle.

I lost my balance and fell from the wall. My right arm hit the ground first.

A white-hot crack of pain shot up from my forearm.

Broken.

The world went black at the edges. I lay facedown on the concrete, unable to move.

My mother walked over and looked down at me.

"Tried to run, did you? Broke your arm for your trouble."

She crouched beside me, and there was something almost smug in her voice.

"I told you. Pay up early and you wouldn't have to suffer like this. But you never listen."

"Now look at you. Broken arm, no gold, and a hospital bill on top of it."

I lay on the ground, my voice shaking so badly the words barely held together.

"Mom, Hal is dying..."

"Enough!"

She stood up and brushed the dust off her hands.

"You've cursed him once, you've cursed him twice. Are you ever going to stop?"

She turned to the guards who had rushed in behind her.

"Take her back. Keep a closer eye on her this time."

"If she gets away with the gold, that's on you, not me."

"Oh, and that five-thousand-dollar reward you mentioned for reporting a thief. That's still on the table, right?"

The two guards hauled me off the floor.

My right arm hung limp at my side, the broken edge of bone pressing against the skin from the inside.

The pain was so bad my whole body shook.

But I still twisted around to face her.

"Mom, just make one phone call. One call and you'll know if I'm lying."

She ignored me, but she pulled out her phone anyway and dialed.

"I told your uncle to come pick me up. Once he gets here, let's see you keep up this little act."

She held the phone to her ear and waited.

After a moment, her expression shifted.

"Why isn't he picking up?"

She tried again. Still no answer.

Her brow furrowed. "Where the hell did he run off to..."

I stared at her face.

"Mom. Call Riverdale General. Ask the emergency department if they have a patient named Hal Fox."

She shot me a glare. "You're out of your mind!"

But she dialed the hospital anyway.

"Hello? Riverdale General? I'm calling to ask whether you have a patient in the ER by the name of Hal Fox..."

Her voice changed.

"You do? What happened to him?"

Something was said on the other end. Then her phone slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor.

The life drained out of her. Slowly, she turned to look at me.

Her knees buckled and she crumpled to the floor.

She crawled toward me and grabbed the hem of my pants.

"Dora, the hospital said your brother's trachea is severed. He needs surgery!"

"You're a doctor! Save him!"

I looked down at her and said quietly:

"Mom, a tracheal anastomosis requires incredibly precise work."

"In all of Riverdale, I'm the only one who can do it."

"But my arm is broken now. I won't be able to hold a scalpel again for months."

The color bled from my mother's face, shade by shade.