Chapter 3 - The Fragile Dawn
The 6:00 AM alarm on my cracked phone jolted me out of a half-daze.
My replacement, a perpetually tired college student named Greg, pushed through the glass door smelling of cheap weed and menthol cigarettes. He didn't notice the lingering smell of bleach and citrus, nor did he see the slight tremor in my fingers as I counted out the register.
"You look like hell, Riley," Greg mumbled, tossing his backpack into the corner.
"Didn't sleep much. Slow night," I lied, slipping off my grease-stained apron.
I took the elevated train toward Pilsen, sitting with my back pressed hard against the plastic seat, every muscle coiled. Every man in a dark jacket made my pulse spike. Every sudden movement made my hand instinctively reach into my pocket, where the cold, heavy edges of Carmela’s metal card pressed against my thigh.
Our apartment was on the third floor of a dilapidated brick walk-up where the hallway always smelled of boiled cabbage and damp radiator steam. I unlocked the three deadbolts on our door, slipping inside with the practiced quiet of someone who had spent four years protecting a sick child's fragile sleep.
Toby was already awake.
He was sitting on our worn-out sofa, wrapped in a faded superhero blanket, his small knees drawn up to his chest. At ten years old, Toby looked barely seven. His skin was pale, his cheeks hollowed by the aggressive treatments for his aplastic anemia, but his eyes were bright, curious, and far too old for his face.
"You're twenty minutes late," Toby croaked, offering me a weak grin.
The terror of the night vanished, replaced by an overwhelming ache in my chest. I crossed the room and kissed his forehead. His skin was cool. No fever. Thank God.
"Buses were running slow, kiddo," I said, setting down a bag with two day-old blueberry muffins I’d taken from the display case. "Did you take your morning pills?"
"Yup. The blue one, the white oval, and the gross yellow liquid." Toby made a gagging face, then looked down at my hands. "What happened to your knuckles?"
I looked down. There was dried blood beneath my fingernails—Carmela’s blood.
"Broke a glass while cleaning the espresso machine," I brushed it off quickly, heading into the cramped bathroom to scrub my skin until it was raw.
When I came back out, Toby was nibbling on a muffin, staring intently at the kitchen table. Sitting on top of our pile of past-due utility bills was the final notice from Chicago Children’s Specialty Clinic.
Seventeen thousand four hundred dollars.
That was the cost of his upcoming immunotherapy round. Without it, the doctor had been brutally blunt: Toby’s bone marrow would fail completely before the winter was out. The hospital gave me until Friday to provide a deposit.
Today was Tuesday.
"Riley?" Toby’s small voice broke the silence. "Are they going to make me stop going to the hospital?"
"No," I said instantly, kneeling before him and taking his small, frail hands into mine. "Never. I told you, Toby. That’s my job. You just focus on reading your comic books and getting better. I handle the rest."
"Don't lie to me. I heard you crying on the phone with the billing lady."
Before I could formulate another brave lie, a soft, deliberate knock sounded at our apartment door.
My blood turned to ice. Nobody ever knocked on our door at eight in the morning. The landlord used the phone, and our neighbors kept strictly to themselves.
I signaled Toby to stay quiet, stood up, and approached the door slowly. I peered through the scratched fisheye peephole.
Standing in the dimly lit hallway was a man wearing a brown leather jacket. He had a scarred eyebrow, dead eyes, and hands shoved deep into his pockets.
May you like
It was Scar Face. The man who had chased Carmela into my café five hours ago.
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