Chapter 2

He woke on the cold, wet floor of his apartment to a persistent tapping sound. The last thing he remembered was his sister dragging his unconscious body from the driveway, driving him back in stony silence, and leaving him here. His head throbbed with a dull, relentless rhythm.

"Jesse? Are you in there? It' s Honora Matthews, your landlord. Your rent is late."

The voice was kind, laced with concern. He tried to call out, but only a dry rasp escaped his throat. The tapping grew more insistent, followed by the sound of a key in the lock.

The door opened, and Honora Matthews gasped. She was a middle-aged woman with gentle eyes, and right now, they were wide with shock.

"Oh, my God. Jesse, what happened to you?"

She rushed to his side, her warmth a stark contrast to the cold that had settled deep in his bones. She saw the bruises, the gash on his forehead, the way he shivered uncontrollably.

She didn' t ask questions. She just helped him up, her small frame surprisingly strong, and got him to the nearest hospital.

In the sterile, white emergency room, a doctor with a grim face delivered the verdict.

"It' s a glioblastoma," he said, pointing to the shadowy mass on the brain scan. "Late-stage. I' m very sorry, but it' s inoperable."

The words didn' t shock Jesse. They were just a confirmation of the sentence he had already felt hanging over him. He had weeks, maybe a month or two if he was lucky.

Honora Matthews cried. She held his hand, treating him with more compassion than his own family ever had. She stayed with him, bringing him soup and making sure he was comfortable.

He had a small savings account, money he' d hidden from his sister for emergencies. It wasn' t much, but it was all he had left. He signed the money over to Mrs. Matthews.

"Please, take it," he whispered. "For everything."

She refused at first, but he insisted. He knew he wouldn' t need it where he was going. He had accepted his fate.

A few days later, while lying in his hospital bed, he heard familiar voices from the hallway. It was his family.

"He just needs a little attention, that' s all," his mother was saying, her voice laced with false sympathy. "Aloysius gets so anxious when he feels left out."

Then he heard Aloysius' s voice, high and theatrical. "I just feel so scared! What if what happened to Jesse happens to me? I can' t handle it!"

Jesse could picture it perfectly: Aloysius, faking a panic attack, his face a mask of fragile innocence, manipulating them as he always had.

"Of course not, sweetie," his father' s voice boomed. "We' ll take care of you. We' ll stay right here."

He heard their footsteps fade away as they rushed to comfort the imposter, leaving their dying son completely forgotten.

A little while later, his sister Honora appeared in the doorway of his room. Her face was a storm cloud of fury.

"So this is your new trick?" she sneered. "Faking an illness to get attention? To make Aloysius upset?"

"It' s not fake, Honora," he said, his voice weak.

She ignored him. She grabbed his arm, her nails digging into his skin, and pulled him out of the bed. The IV ripped from his arm, and blood dripped onto the linoleum floor.

"You are going to learn your lesson once and for all."

She dragged him out of the hospital, past the shocked nurses, and shoved him into her car. She drove for what felt like an hour, deep into the countryside, finally stopping near an old, dilapidated barn by a river.

"You can stay here and 'reflect' on how much trouble you' ve caused," she said, her voice devoid of any emotion. She threw him out of the car and onto the damp earth. "Don' t even think about coming back until you' re ready to beg Aloysius for his forgiveness."

She drove off, leaving him in the chilling autumn air. The sun was setting, and the temperature was dropping fast. He was weak from the illness, from the abuse. He stumbled into the dark, musty barn, collapsing onto a pile of old hay.

His mind drifted. He remembered being a child, before Aloysius, when his parents would sometimes smile at him. He remembered Honora, as a little girl, once sharing her candy with him. Were those memories real? Or had he invented them to survive? The years of overwork, the constant hunger, the crushing weight of a false guilt had worn him down to nothing. His body was failing, the tumor in his brain a relentless thief, stealing his motor functions, his memories.

He didn't know how long he lay there, shivering, drifting in and out of consciousness. He was so thirsty. He tried to crawl toward the river, his limbs refusing to obey. This was it. This was the end.

Just as the last of his strength faded, he heard a car skidding to a halt on the gravel road. A car door slammed.

"Jesse! Jesse, are you here?"

It was Honora Matthews. She had found him. A single tear of gratitude rolled down his cheek before everything went black.

He woke up back in the hospital. Mrs. Matthews was there, her face etched with worry. He had severe pneumonia on top of everything else. It took two weeks for him to recover enough to be discharged.

She offered to let him stay with her, but he refused. He didn't want to be a burden. He went back to his tiny, empty apartment.

He wasn' t there for more than an hour when there was a sharp knock on the door. It was his sister, Honora.

Her eyes swept over him, a smirk playing on her lips.

"Look what the cat dragged in," she said. "I' m surprised you had the nerve to come back."

Jesse looked at her, his gaze steady. The fear was gone. There was nothing left they could take from him.

"I didn' t just 'come back,' Honora," he said, his voice quiet but clear. "I was in the hospital. I had pneumonia. Because you left me to die in a field."