Chapter 3

The heavy thud of the backpack settling into the Persian rug echoed in the silent living room.

Frona didn't hesitate. She dropped to her knees, the fabric of her expensive slacks pulling tight across her thighs. Her hands, adorned with heavy gold rings, grabbed the zipper of the faded black canvas bag. She yanked it open with a harsh, tearing sound.

Crockett leaned against the front door. He pulled his smartphone from his pocket, his thumb tapping the screen to open the camera app. He held it up, the lens pointed directly at Elvera, a smug grin plastered across his face. He was ready to record the exact moment her life fell apart.

Frona grabbed the bottom of the backpack and violently tipped it upside down.

She shook it.

The contents spilled out onto the intricate patterns of the rug.

There was no velvet jewelry box. There was no glitter of diamonds.

Two washed-out, gray cotton t-shirts fluttered down. A dented stainless-steel water bottle rolled a few inches before stopping against the coffee table leg. Finally, two massive, hardback medical textbooks hit the floor with a bone-jarring smack.

Frona froze. Her hands hovered over the pathetic pile of belongings.

She lunged forward, her manicured nails digging into the soft cotton of the t-shirts. She frantically shook the fabric out, tossing it aside. She grabbed the heavy medical books, flipping the thick pages, shaking them upside down.

Nothing.

The seconds ticked by. The silence in the room grew heavy, suffocating.

Frona's frantic movements slowed, then stopped completely. She knelt on the rug, surrounded by Elvera's cheap possessions. The blood rushed to Frona's face, turning her skin a mottled, ugly purple. Her mouth opened and closed, but her vocal cords refused to produce a single sound.

By the door, Crockett's arm slowly lowered. The smug grin slid off his face, replaced by a blank, stupid look of confusion. The screen of his phone went dark.

Donita shifted her weight nervously. She refused to look at Elvera. She stared at the floorboards, her voice a weak, trembling whisper. "I... I must have left it upstairs. I remembered wrong."

Elvera stood tall, looking down at the people kneeling in the dirt of their own making. The corner of her mouth lifted in a sharp, bloodless sneer.

She didn't demand an apology. She didn't scream.

Elvera slowly crouched down. Her movements were deliberate, unhurried. She picked up the heavy medical books, her fingers brushing the dust off the covers, and slid them back into the canvas bag. She folded the t-shirts, placed the water bottle inside, and zipped the bag shut.

Connie cleared his throat. The sound was loud and awkward in the quiet room. He adjusted his cardigan, trying to salvage a shred of his patriarchal authority.

"Well," Connie stammered, his eyes darting away from Elvera. "You can't blame us for being cautious. We have to protect our home."

Elvera grabbed the strap of the backpack and slung it over her shoulder. She didn't even dignify Connie's pathetic excuse with a glance.

She turned her body toward the front door, her eyes fixed on Crockett, who was still blocking her path.

Before she could take a step, a harsh, wet, tearing sound ripped through the house.

Everyone looked up.

The furious shouting from downstairs finally pierced the thick, suffocating haze of his fever. Dragging himself from his bed, Kimball had forced his way out of his room. At the top of the stairs, Kimball gripped the wooden banister. His knuckles were bone-white. He was wearing a thin, gray cotton pajama shirt that hung loosely over his emaciated frame. His chest heaved violently as another fit of coughing racked his body.

Kimball's face was deathly pale, his skin slick with a feverish sweat, but his eyes burned with a fierce, furious heat.

He dragged his slippered feet down the stairs, his breathing a ragged wheeze.

"Kimball!" Frona gasped. She scrambled up from the rug, her face instantly morphing into a mask of maternal panic. She rushed toward the stairs, reaching out to support him.

Kimball violently shoved her hands away.

Frona stumbled back, shocked.

Kimball didn't look at his mother. He stumbled across the living room and planted himself directly in front of Elvera, using his frail body as a physical shield between her and the rest of the family.

He bent over, coughing so hard his entire spine shook. When he finally caught his breath, he glared at Connie and Frona.

"You are... disgusting," Kimball rasped. His vocal cords sounded like sandpaper. "All of you. You're sick."

"Kimball, she was bullying me!" Donita whined, stepping out from behind Crockett.

"Shut up, Donita!" Kimball roared. The effort drained the color from his lips, leaving them a pale blue. "Just shut your mouth!"

He turned around to face Elvera. The fury in his eyes melted away, replaced by a deep, agonizing sorrow. His eyes were red-rimmed and wet.

Elvera's rigid posture softened. The ice in her veins thawed just a fraction. She reached out, her cool hand resting flat against Kimball's trembling back, rubbing in slow, soothing circles to help him catch his breath.

Kimball reached into the pocket of his pajama pants. His hand was shaking violently. He pulled out a piece of plastic and pressed it hard into Elvera's palm.

Elvera looked down. It was a bank card. The edges were worn smooth, the numbers faded from years of being carried around.

"Take it," Kimball whispered, his breath hot and shallow against her face. "It's my medical fund. Everything I saved. Take it. You need money to survive out there."

Elvera's fingers curled around the warm plastic. A tight, painful knot formed in her throat.

Frona saw the card. Her eyes bulged.

"No!" Frona screamed. She lunged forward, her hands clawing toward Elvera's fist. "That's his treatment money! You bloodsucker, give it back!"

Kimball threw his arms out, his bony elbows locking as he physically blocked Frona's path.

"If she doesn't take it," Kimball yelled, his voice cracking, "I will refuse every single treatment! I swear to God, Mom, I'll stop going to the hospital!"

Connie grabbed Frona's waist, hauling her backward. He stared at his son, terrified by the absolute conviction in Kimball's feverish eyes.

Elvera looked at the boy who had just put his life on the line for her. He was skin and bones, but his spirit was a fortress.

She flipped her hand over, her fingers wrapping gently around Kimball's freezing, bony wrist. She squeezed it, applying just enough pressure to ground him.

"Kimball," Elvera murmured, her voice so low only he could hear it. "Breathe."