One Late Fee Too Far

Time dragged, second by second. Each one cut deeper.

"Hurry up!"

"What's the rush? The computer's slow, can't you see?" Winnie snapped.

Her hand crawled over the mouse, flipping through folders at a snail's pace.

Open. Glance. Close. Open another.

"Now where did I put that template?" she muttered, sneaking looks at me. "We just updated it. I really can't remember."

"Winnie Booth, you got a death wish?" I grabbed her collar and yanked her out of the chair. "Do you know how cold it is out there? My sister's weak. If anything happens to her, you won't know a single peaceful day for the rest of your life!"

She shrieked. "You dare touch me? Security! Where's security?"

Then she steadied, sneering. "Go ahead. Hit me. Lay a finger on me, and I guarantee you won't find your sister—and you'll be the one arrested. Then she really will be left out there to die."

I stared at her. Rage roared in my ears, begging me to snap her neck.

But Maya's pale face flashed in my mind. My grip loosened.

I shoved her back and dragged in a breath. "Print it. Now."

She fixed her collar, smug. Then—finally—she found the file and hit print.

The old printer hummed to life.

She grabbed her coffee, twisted the lid, blew on it, took a slow sip.

"This thing really needs replacing. A few dozen pages takes forever," she said, casual.

The printer crawled, pausing between each sheet.

I stared at the tray. My fists clenched so tight my nails cut into my palms. Blood seeped through my fingers. I didn't feel it.

All I could think about was Maya.

Where was she?

Had anyone decent given her a coat? She missed her meds. If the nerve pain hit, how bad would it get?

Five long minutes later, the thick stack—over thirty pages—finally finished printing.

I reached for the stack, but Winnie slapped her hand over it.

"What's the rush? I haven't organized it yet."

She lifted the papers and tapped them on the desk.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Slow. Deliberate.

Like she was enjoying this.

If one page was even a little off, she pulled it out, fixed it, slid it back in.

"That's enough." I ground the words out. "Give me the pen."

Only after lining it up did she open a drawer and pull out a stapler.

She started fastening the pages—painfully slow. After each press, she held the stack up, checking if any page stuck out.

Three staples should've taken seconds. She stretched it to half a minute.

Finally, she slid the contract over and handed me a pen.

I grabbed it, flipped to the last page, ready to sign.

Right as the tip touched down, she slapped her hand over the line.

I looked up, eyes sharp.

"What now?"

She met my eyes, a vicious smile curling up.

Leaning in, she took on that fake, lecturing tone. "Ms. Keyne, this contract covers your sister's full treatment plan and liability waiver."

Her red nail tapped the thick stack.

"We're a fully compliant facility. We follow procedure. To avoid disputes—or certain family members making unreasonable claims—"

She paused, eyes gleaming.

"Per our latest policy, you need to read every word of all thirty-five pages before signing. Miss one, and you won't be signing anything today."