The number loops through my head.
Again. And again.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out and find a text from my landlord saying if my rent isn’t paid by Friday, I’m evicted. It’s the third month I’m late.
I bark out a laugh that echoes sharply and slightly unhinged through the room.
Maybe next week my car will explode.
Maybe a meteor will hit my apartment.
I shove the phone back into my pocket and I look at my brother. Really look at him. This is my big brother who taught himself guitar by watching YouTube videos. My brother, who once convinced me he was dying because he had a cold. My brother, who’s never met a dog he didn't have to stop to pet.
My throat tightens. "I don't know what to do anymore." The words slip out before I can stop them. I haven't said them out loud until now. I've been too busy pretending I have everything under control. Pretending I'm strong and handling this.
The truth is much uglier.
I'm exhausted and terrified.
And for the first time since the accident, I don't know if my grit is enough. I squeeze Ben's hand. "Just wake up, okay?" My voice cracks. "Please."
The machines continue their steady rhythm, but Ben remains silent. His hand lies limp in mine, as I feel cracks breaking my resolve, and something dangerous creeping into them.
Hopelessness.
The feeling stays with me as I leave the hospital and go to my night job.
As I push my custodial cart through dark and empty offices, dread slithers deeper into my chest. It takes up so much space, I can’t breathe properly. In the middle of vacuuming, my legs give out. The low-pile synthetic carpet burns my cheek as I crash to the floor. It’s designed for heavy foot traffic and rolling office chairs, not panic attacks.
With my heart racing like it wants to escape my chest, I roll onto my back and stare up at the bottom of a desk as I force myself to take deep inhales through my nose and long exhales through my mouth.
When I finally feel like I’m no longer dying, I notice a folded piece of paper jammed into a hinge of the keyboard tray of whoever’s desk I’m under. When I started this job, I had to watch a video that harped on about touching nothing in the office other than the trash cans I’m supposed to empty. Even if something is on the floor next to the receptacle, and looks like it’s meant to be trash, I still must not touch it.
During the weeks I’ve worked here, I’ve never once been tempted to pocket any of the cell phones, earrings, wallets, watches, and other valuables people left behind at their workstations.
But this scrap of paper intrigues me.
The way it’s stuck in the hinge makes it look like someone hid it on purpose. I can’t imagine any way it would have accidentally ended up in that position. I sit up so I can pry it loose and unfold it.
It’s only a quarter of a letter size big and features a picture of a glamorous, attractive woman, gazing seductively over her shoulder.
The words underneath the image make me catch my breath: Luxury Sugar Babies Auction.
Is this the answer to my eighty-seven-thousand-dollar problem?
Am I desperate enough to do this?
Am I brave enough?
And then I think about all the things Ben sacrificed for me after Dad passed. He was only eighteen when he became my guardian, so I didn’t have to go into the foster care system. My brother gave up his medical school dreams, including a full-ride scholarship for his bachelor's degree, and instead became a mechanic apprentice so he could raise his thirteen-year-old sister.
There’s no room for prudishness or judgement here. I owe my brother more than I can ever repay.
The answer to all three questions swirling around in my head must be yes.
CHAPTER 2
MAX
