Ruthless Savior

Chapter One

Leila

I do not, under any circumstances, recommend moving during the winter in Boston.

Unfortunately, my circumstances mean I don’t have much choice.

“What did you pack in this, cement blocks?” my best friend, Alicia, grimaces as she tries to pick up a cardboard box near the front of the U-Haul parked—probably illegally—in front of my mom’s apartment in downtown Boston. “I work out like, five days a week, and I do not think I can pick this up.”

“Books.” I run a hand through my hair tiredly and immediately regret it, as half of my ponytail falls out around my face. Grunting with frustration, I yank the tie out and go to fix it. “A lot of these boxes are books.”

“This is when a boyfriend would be helpful, Chip. Like—one with muscles.”

Her use of her nickname for me makes me smile a little, despite how utterly shitty this day is. She’s called me that since junior high. Kids used to make fun of my name, calling me ‘Lay’s Chips,’ and Alicia turned it into her special nickname, telling me that if we made something good out of it, the teasing wouldn’t matter any longer.

Only we can decide if something hurts us, or if we make it something of our own. You can feel however you want about something. They don’t get to decide.

I’ve hung onto that a lot, over the years. Through breakups, through other friendships gone sour, through class assignments in college that I thought were great, and my professors tore apart. But right now, today, I don’t know if I get to decide if this hurts me. 

It feels, like a lot of things have lately, as if it’s out of my control.

“It was nice of your boss to give you the Friday off to move.” Alicia sets the box of books down on the curb with a huff. “At least you have the whole weekend.”

“He wasn’t too thrilled about it.” I tug my ponytail into place and reach for another box of books. Alicia is right, they are way too heavy. I should probably have gotten rid of half of them. Especially since I’m not even sure my mom really has space for all of this. The gorgeous apartment I’d managed to get approved for—right out of college on account of the finance job I’d landed—had plenty of room… but I had to break that lease last week. 

And now, at twenty-two, I’m moving back in with my mom, right when my life on my own was supposed to be taking off.

Alicia frowns. “He wasn’t thrilled about it? Chip, your mom has cancer. You’re moving in with her to help take care of her, and he wasn’t thrilled that you needed to take PTO that you earned?” She snorts. “What a fucking dick.”

“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “But I’m new, you know? One step above an intern, even if they’re paying me way better.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” Alicia blows out another huffing breath. “I just think they should be more worried about you— and how you’re going to balance all of this with still working full-time—”

I bite my lip. “I don’t know, honestly,” I admit. “But I just have to do my best.”

"Yeah, I guess." Alicia blows out another huffing breath, then pauses, studying my face with that expression she gets when she's trying to read my mind. "But seriously, how are you holding up? Like, actually holding up? Because you look like you haven't slept in weeks."

“Thanks,” I say wryly. I haven’t, but I don’t really want to admit it. I’m well aware of the toll all of this is taking on me—Alicia isn’t the first person to point it out, and some of my coworkers have been less gentle about it. “I’m fine”. 

"Bullshit." Alicia crosses her arms. "When's the last time you went out, other than meeting me for a drink last week when you yawned into your martini three times? When's the last time you did anything that wasn't work or dealing with your mom's appointments?"

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and rub my forehead. "Alicia—"

"I'm serious. You're twenty-two. You should be going to bars and making terrible dating decisions and staying up too late watching Netflix. Instead, you're..." She gestures helplessly at the U-Haul, at the situation. "This isn't fair."

“I know.” I feel my shoulders drop slightly and grab another box. This one's lighter—probably clothes. "But I can’t do anything other than what I’m doing right now to fix it.”

"That doesn't mean it doesn't suck."

She's right, of course. It does suck. Everything about this sucks. But what's the alternative? Let my mom go through this alone? "Come on, let's just get this done. It's supposed to snow later."

Alicia sighs. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be supporting you, not pointing out stuff that you already know and making you feel worse. It’s just—it’s hard not to be frustrated for you.”

“It’s no one’s fault. Just how things go sometimes.” I swallow down the lump in my throat, and reach for a bag of clothes. 

Five hours later, as the sun starts to go down, we have just about everything moved into the small second bedroom in my mom’s apartment. I’m sweating despite the cold, and my back is screaming at me that I’ve overdone it. All of my stuff is crammed wall-to-wall, boxes overflowing in the living room, and unpacking it all seems like an exhausting endeavor that I don’t know how I’m ever going to find the energy to tackle. But I’ll manage. I have to.

Alicia follows me in her car—she still lives with her parents out in the suburbs, and actually has a vehicle—while I return the U-Haul. She’s waiting for me when I come out, the car still running and mercifully warm when I slide into it.

“You look upset. More upset, I mean.” She presses her lips together. “Did something happen?”

“Just had less in my checking account than I thought. It’s fine. I can still get groceries for the week.” Barely—I’m going to probably be eating 99-cent ramen, since the priority is getting food that my mom can keep down, and that sounds good to her right now. But I’m not about to admit that.

There are a lot of things I don’t want to admit lately.

"You know—" Alicia drums her fingers on the steering wheel. "I could help you out. With money, I mean. I've got some savings, and—"

"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended, and I see her flinch. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap. But no, I can't take your money. You’ve been saving for your own place. To move out. I’m not going to do that.”

"Chip, come on. We're best friends. That's what friends do." Alicia looks at me pleadingly. “Just let me help. My parents and I get along great. It’s really not that bad.”

“You hate living at home. I know you do.” Alicia’s parents are great, for the most part, but they’re still parents, and they’re fairly old-fashioned. They still have opinions about how late she should be out, her hobbies, and definitely about bringing dates home. “You were just talking about all the stuff we should be getting to do at our age and living in the city. Your parents are wonderful, but I know you want to be out on your own, just like I do. Hell, we talked about moving in together once you could manage rent every month.”

“Yeah.” Alicia bites her lip. “But it’s not as important as what you’ve got going on. And I have a few thousand saved up already—”

I close my eyes briefly, trying not to let out the bitter laugh that I know will make Alicia feel bad, even though I wouldn’t be laughing at her. Just at the situation. “Even if I said yes, it would run out so fast that it would be laughable. You don't understand how much this costs, Alicia. The treatments, the medications, the specialists. Even with insurance, we're talking thousands and thousands of dollars. It’s insane. Literally insane. I can’t ask for your money just to watch it vanish in a matter of weeks.”

Alicia gives me a pleading look. "You're not asking. I'm offering."

"And I'm saying no." I stare out the windshield, fighting back tears for what feels like the fiftieth time today. "I appreciate it, I really do. But this is my responsibility."

What I don't tell her is that I've already explored every option. I've looked into payment plans, medical loans, even considered a second job, though I have no idea when I'd fit it in between my sixty-hour workweeks and taking care of my mom. I've run the numbers a hundred times, and they never add up. My salary, good as it is for someone fresh out of college, just isn't enough. It was plenty before this—more than enough. But not now.

“What about a raise?” Alicia ventures. “I know you just started, but under the circumstances—”

“I tried.” I let out a harsh breath. “I had a meeting with my boss last week, and I asked about a raise. Explained everything—that was when I said I needed this Friday off to move. But he said no.”

“Fucking dick,” Alicia hisses, but I see her shoulders drop, and I know she’s going to let the conversation go. I’m relieved. I don’t want to have to keep telling her why all of her solutions won’t work—that I’ve been through them all, and short of taking money from my best friend—which I’m not going to do—all I have left is getting by on what I make.

Well, that, and one more option that I don’t plan to tell her about, because I know what she’d say.

When my boss turned me down for the raise, he handed me a business card and told me that if I called the number, someone might be able to help me with a loan. No credit needed, just assurance I could pay. 

I’m not stupid. I have some idea of what kind of person is going to answer that number when I call. I also have a feeling that whatever connection my boss has to them, it’s going to benefit him more for me to take out that loan than for me to get a raise. 

But I’m also desperate. Being smart doesn’t help when all the doors that could help someone keep getting slammed right in front of them. I’ve got the card in my purse still, and once Alicia has left tonight and my mom is settled in, I plan to give that number a call.

And I’m not going to tell anyone about it. 

Alicia drives us back to my mom’s apartment, turning up the radio to try to brighten the mood. Once we’re upstairs, she does the same, putting on music that we used to have dance parties to in high school on her phone and turning it up once I assure her my mom is awake and doesn’t mind. And it does help. It’s hard not to laugh when my best friend starts belting out Avril Lavigne like she’s doing bad karaoke.

We get most of my books unpacked and stacked on various shelves, and the remaining boxes moved to my room to put on the bookshelves there. I try to ignore how badly my back hurts as I carry the boxes in and set them at the foot of the mattress I’m using for now until my bed frame is delivered, and plop down on the edge of it for a second, breathing hard.

“I’m going to order Chinese,” Alicia announces from the living room. “Ask your mom what she wants?”

“You don’t have to do that,” I start to say, but she levels that best-friend glare at me that tells me she’s not going to take no for an answer. “Alright,” I relent. “Mongolian beef for me? With lo mein?”

“And extra crab rangoon. I know your order, bitch.” Alicia grins at me from the other side of a box. “Go ask your mom if hers is still sesame chicken or if she wants to try something new.”

Another smile makes its way to my face despite my exhaustion. No matter what—no matter how hard things are—my best friend can always make it a little better. “Okay. Be right back.” 

I find my mom in her bedroom, where she said she was going to stay while we moved me in so that she wouldn’t ‘be in the way’—her words, not mine. She’s in an armchair next to the window that overlooks the park, and I blink back tears as I look at her, trying valiantly not to cry.

The cancer isn’t so advanced yet that it’s changed her appearance very much. She’s thinner and a little paler. Right now it’s still the pretty dark auburn that it’s always been, paler streaks threaded through it from age, piled up on her head in a messy bun, but it will be gone soon. The nurses warned us about that, the longer she’s in chemo. The sight of it makes my throat tighten—I can’t imagine my mother losing her hair. Reflexively, I touch my own ponytail. Mine is just like hers. I have her hair, and her eyes, and her chin, and her nose. Her figure, and her sense of humor. I’m almost entirely my mom, which has always made me happy—my father was never in my life, and so I’ve never wanted any part of him to show up in me. 

There’s a book in her lap, but I can see that she’s not really reading. She’s looking out of the window at the snow that’s started to fall in light, small flakes, and she glances over after a moment at the sound of my footsteps, a tired smile on her face. 

"How's the unpacking going, sweetheart?"

I swallow hard, forcing myself to speak without letting my voice crack. "Good. Alicia's ordering Chinese. You want your usual?"

"That sounds perfect." She nods at the edge of the bed across from her armchair. "Sit with me for a minute?"

I perch on the edge of the mattress, resisting the urge to fall back onto it and let my exhaustion consume me. My whole body aches, but I’m not going to get to go to sleep anytime soon. I need to make some sense of the chaos I’ve created in the apartment with all of my stuff, and there’s still that number to call.

I can’t imagine it’s going to be incredibly straightforward, but maybe it will be. I’ll give whoever it is my banking information over the phone—something that I, as a finance major, know to never do—if they’ll give me the money I need to get my mom through this.

"I'm proud of you, you know," Mom says quietly. "For everything you're doing. I know this isn't how you pictured your life going right now."

I manage a smile. “I’d do anything for you. You know that. And plus, it’s not so bad. Moving in, I mean. We’ll get to spend more time together.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure, Leila. At twenty-two I would have been thrilled to live with my parents. Absolutely stoked.” 

A laugh bubbles up from my throat at her sarcasm. “Really. It’s not like I have a hot love life or anything. And I can still go out and stuff… nothing will really change.”

She gives me a knowing look. “You’re so tired all the time already.”

We both know she doesn’t need to say more. Both of us know how this is going to go—how my endless workweeks are going to be bookended and mashed up with doctor’s appointments and phone calls and, soon enough, me needing to do everything around the house, cook and clean and manage her bills and mine, and take care of her on top of it.

“Maybe we can get a cleaner to come once a week—” Mom starts to say, but I shake my head.

“It’s fine. I’ve got it. Really.”

It’s an expense we can’t afford. Not when the college has let her go after she couldn’t commit to a full course load this upcoming semester, when her health insurance isn’t covering all the costs, when her savings are being blown through faster than either of us can imagine. 

Luxuries are not going to be something we have for a while. And if I could afford any luxury, it would be for my mom, not to take something off of my plate.

“You’re giving up so much.” She bites her lip. “I really wonder if it’s worth it, sweetheart.”

The tears that I’ve been fighting so hard all day instantly well in my eyes. “Don’t say that,” I tell her firmly, leaning forward to grasp her hand. “Don’t even think it. Of course it’s worth it.”

I’m sure of that. She’s right—I am giving up a lot, even if I’d never admit it out loud—the dream apartment I was supposed to be living in, all of the exciting nights I was looking forward to as an early twenty-something living in downtown Boston. Nights out with friends, hangover brunches, bringing home hot guys and not caring if they called me back. Working long hours not to see all of the money instantly vanish, but to build my own future and give myself something secure, so that I’d never struggle like my mother did when she was alone and raising me. 

I’d pictured saving for vacations I’d take Alicia on. We’ve talked so many times about going to Spain, or Greece, or Japan, and she always laments how long it’ll be until she can afford something like that with her bartending job that doesn’t pay all that well. I calculated savings and how soon I could surprise her with a birthday trip. 

Now that money is going toward chemo and my mom’s mortgage. But I don’t regret it. I can’t. 

I also can’t let myself think about it for too long, though, or it feels like too much. 

"I'm not giving up anything that matters," I tell her, and I mean it. "You're what matters."

She squeezes my hand. "I love you, sweetheart."

A few of the tears spill over, clinging to my lashes. "I love you too, Mom."

An hour later, the three of us are sitting around my mom’s antique dining table with containers of Chinese food spread out in front of us. The smell of sweet, sticky sauce, lo mein, and grease is comforting. It feels like Friday nights back in high school, when Alicia would come over for a sleepover and my mom would order exactly this. For a moment, everything almost feels normal.

"So, Leila," Mom says, picking at her sesame chicken, "tell me about work. How are things going with the new project?"

I exchange a glance with Alicia. I haven't told Mom about how strained things have gotten at the office, how irritated my boss is that I have another demand on my time that isn’t what he needs or wants from me. I have no plans to, either—the last thing I want is her feeling like more of a burden. "It's good. Challenging, but good."

"She's being modest," Alicia jumps in. "She's basically running the whole client analysis for this huge merger. It’s a really big thing.”

I grab a crab rangoon, giving her a pointed look. My mom knows what kind of workload someone with my job has, but I don’t want to overemphasize it. I don’t want her spending any energy worrying about me.

"That's wonderful, honey." Mom's eyes light up with pride. "I knew you'd impress them."

I feel myself relax a little. “It takes a lot to impress the higher-ups there,” I admit. “So I don’t know if that’s what I’m doing, exactly, so much as earning my keep. But it is a big deal. And it’s going well, so far.”

So far. Half the reason I’m not sleeping is the nightmares I have every night about showing up to meetings unprepared, documents getting mysteriously deleted from my computer, being late to work because I slept in. The typical late-to-an-exam high school nightmares—​​​​but now with much more at stake, and dialed up to eleven. 

My mom pushes her sesame chicken around her plate again, and my stomach twists. “You’re barely eating,” I murmur. I’d promised myself we wouldn’t talk about anything bad over dinner, but worry is making me break my rule already. "Is the nausea getting worse?"

She shrugs, pushing a piece of chicken around on her plate. “It’s not great,” she says with a chuckle. “But it’s more that I just don’t have that much of an appetite. It’s really good, though,” she adds, taking a bite. “Thank you for ordering it, Alicia.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Alicia says quickly. “That, and helping Leila move in. I wish I could do more—” She looks at me, and I give her a narrow-eyed glare. 

Don’t, I mouth, and she lets out a sigh.

“What?” Mom looks between the two of us. “Is there something I’m missing?”

Alicia looks at me nervously, then at my mom. “I offered to give Leila some money,” she blurts out. “I’ve got some savings. But she said no—”

“Absolutely not,” my mom interrupts. “We will be just fine. There’s no way I’m taking money from you, sweetheart.”

“I want to help, though—”

“I know.” Mom offers her a smile. "But we'll figure it out. We always do."

“How?” Alicia blurts out, ignoring the kick I give to her shin under the table. “How are you going to figure it out? I know what Leila makes, and it’s a lot, but this place and food and medical bills—” She looks at me nervously. “I just think if anyone else can help—”

I almost say something, then, about the card in my purse. But I know that’s not the kind of anyone else that Alicia means. And I know exactly what my mother would say. 

“What about family?” Alicia presses on. “I know your grandparents are gone, but maybe you could contact your dad—”

“No,” both my mom and I say in unison. It almost makes me laugh. 

“We’ve managed on our own without him for twenty-two years,” my mom says firmly. “I understand where you’re coming from, Alicia, but I’m not reaching out to him for anything. If I could even find him, which I don’t care to.” 

"What about a payment plan with the hospital?" Alicia suggests, and I can hear the note of desperation in her voice—a feeling I’m already well acquainted with. I’ve been through this entire conversation already, with my mom, with myself, with my boss. Alicia is just catching up. "Or financial aid programs?"

"We've tried everything," I say quietly. "We make too much money to qualify for most programs, but not enough to actually afford the treatment. Their suggestions were credit cards and loans, both of which we’ve run the numbers on. We took out a loan, but it isn’t going to last long."

I’ve run the numbers so many times I have them memorized. We’ll be out of savings and the loan my mom took out by the end of the month. The cards are maxed out. We’ll just be living on my income then, and it’s not enough. I can’t get a sizable enough loan to help—not enough credit yet.

Except for the one my boss gave me the contact for.

"That's fucked up," Alicia says, then immediately looks apologetic. "Sorry,” she adds, looking at my mom.

"No, you're right," Mom says with a bitter laugh. "It is fucked up. The whole system is designed to bankrupt people like us."​​

We eat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in our own thoughts. The weight of the impossible situation settles over the table like a heavy blanket. It’s exactly what I was hoping to avoid tonight, but that, too, feels impossible—like the cancer is already infecting not only my mother but our entire lives.

"You know what?" Alicia says suddenly, setting down her chopsticks. "Let's not talk about this anymore tonight. Let's talk about something else. Something good."

"Like what?" I ask gratefully. I needed someone to help pull us out of this funk, because I don’t have the energy to do it myself tonight. 

"Like... remember in high school when we decided to dye our hair blue for junior prom?" Alicia grins, reaching for another crab rangoon.

Mom laughs—the first real laugh I've heard from her in weeks. "I still have pictures of that disaster. They’re on an old laptop somewhere."

"It wasn't that bad," I protest, but I'm smiling too. I remember it very clearly—it was a disaster. 

"You looked like a smurf," Alicia giggles. "An elegant, prom-dress-wearing smurf."

“So did you!” I exclaim. “It didn’t help that your dress was the same color.” 

“I matched,” Alicia says with a sniff, and we both dissolve into laughter. It feels like something in my chest pops, a weight briefly lifting off of me as we keep talking about old stories and memories, and my mother looks brighter than she has in weeks. I can almost forget about calculations that don’t add up, and not enough hours of sleep, and the phone call I need to make later. 

But not quite.

Later, after Alicia has gone home and Mom has fallen asleep, I sit in the living room surrounded by boxes and try to work up the courage to make the call. I reach for my purse, pulling out the card. It’s poor quality, which is the first warning sign, not that I really needed one. I’m well aware that whoever this is, they’re a loan shark. Someone I would never, under normal circumstances, do business with. Just the look on my boss’s face when he handed me the card made my skin crawl.

But these aren’t normal circumstances. And I’m out of options. 

I reach for my cell phone and dial the number before I can lose my nerve.

Someone picks up on the second ring, a rough, impatient voice. “Hello?”

"Hi, um, I'm calling about a loan? My boss, Richard… Richard Brooks, he gave me your number—"

"Brooks. Yeah, I know him. You need money?"

“I—” It’s alarmingly to the point, but what did I expect? I imagine everyone who calls this number is in a place where they don’t have any other choice. It’s not like I’m calling for conversation, and I’m sure this guy knows it. "Yes. For medical bills. My mother, she's—"

There’s a snort on the other end of the line. "I don't need your life story, sweetheart. How much?"

I swallow hard. "Thirty thousand. For an initial loan—after I pay it down, I might need to take out more."

There's a pause. "That's a lot of money.”

My chest tightens with alarm. "I know. But I have a good job, I can pay it back—"

"We'll see about that. You free tonight to talk about it? Meet me at Flanagan’s Bar. I’ll be there until about midnight.”

"I—yes, I can do that." My heart is beating so hard it hurts. “I can be there within an hour.”

"Good. And sweetheart? Don't bring anyone with you. This is between you and me."

The line goes dead, and I stare at my phone for a long moment, wondering what I've just gotten myself into. Not anything good, I know that. I knew that, already—but this is worse than what I expected. The way he talked to me made that perfectly clear. 

I get up, shoving my phone into my pocket, and heading to my room to change. I don’t want this guy to get any ideas, but I figure it can’t hurt to look good, so I throw on a pair of dark, tight jeans, a black top with a low neckline and hook-and-eye closures down the front, and a leather jacket and boots to finish it off. I yank my hair out of the ponytail it was in, trying to comb through the crease left in it with my fingers. When that doesn’t work, I throw it up in a messy bun, figuring that looks sexier than the ponytail it was in. 

The bar is further downtown than I realized, and in a neighborhood that I would never choose to go to alone at night. Wincing, I call an Uber; the price tag on it for a Friday night is something that I know I can’t afford. But if I try to take the bus, I’ll be late, and I can’t afford that either.

I check to make sure my mom is asleep and grab my keys, shivering in the cold as I stand on the curb and watch for the Corolla that’s supposed to be picking me up. The snow is coming down harder now, and I wish I were in a mood to appreciate it—the first snow of the winter. It sticks to my hair and my jacket, and it would be magical if I didn’t feel like I was going to my execution. Boston in the winter always is, but right now, nothing seems beautiful. 

The Uber drops me off right in front of Flanagan’s, the driver giving me a look that’s clearly concerned before he shrugs and drives off as soon as I’m out of the car. I look at the front of the bar and wince. It’s seen better days, and from what I can see through the greasy windows, the inside isn’t much better. It looks dim and smoky and like it’s frequented by the kind of guys that I should stay far, far away from. 

A neon Budweiser sign flickers in the window, casting an eerie red glow on the sidewalk, and the smell of stale beer and cigarettes hits me as soon as I open the door. Every conversation stops when I walk in. I feel like I have a target painted on my back as I make my way to the bar, hyperaware of the way the eyes of the men in the room follow me. I smooth my hands down my jeans, feeling a nervous quiver rising in my stomach. I thought it was a good idea to look somewhat attractive for the meeting, but now I feel like a piece of steak hung out in front of a pack of dogs. I wish I’d worn something shapeless, something that could hide what they’re all clearly staring at. 

"You looking for someone, honey?" A man at the end of the bar leers at me, his words slightly slurred.

"I'm meeting someone," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I fight the urge to lick my lips—the last thing I want is anyone here staring at my mouth. 

"Lucky guy."

I ignore him and approach the bartender. He's a mountain of a man with arms covered in tattoos and a scar running from his left ear to his jaw. Despite his intimidating appearance, he’s not staring at me like he wants to devour me, and he doesn’t look completely like an asshole. Instead, he’s looking at me almost—sympathetically.

Like he sees how out of place I am here and knows why I’m in this bar.

"You Leila?" he asks before I can even say a word. Fuck. I guess I really do stick out.

I swallow hard. "Yes."

He jerks his head toward a door off to the right side of the bar. I figured it led to the bathroom, but maybe not. “In there. Neil is waiting for you. And, honey—” He leans his elbows on the bar, lowering himself to my level and lowering his voice. "You sure you want to do this?"

The question catches me off guard. The last thing I’d expected, walking in here, was for someone to look almost—worried about me. "What do you mean?"

He straightens, his expression clearing. “Nothing. Just—be careful.” He gives me a once-over, but it’s not the kind of hungry look that I’ve been feeling like grease on my skin since I walked in here. “Neil’s not an easy man to deal with. Especially for a pretty girl.”

“I—thanks,” I manage, feeling my hands start to shake a little. “I’ll be fine.”

I don’t sound nearly as confident as I wish I did.

I cross the room to the door that the bartender indicated, still feeling all of those eyes on me. I knock once, firmly, and a cigarette-hoarse voice comes from the other side. The same one I heard on the other end of the phone, earlier. 

“Come in.”

The man that I see as I open the door—Neil, I suppose his name must be—isn’t exactly what I expected. I’d expected a balding man with a potbelly, but he’s younger than I thought—maybe mid-thirties—with a full head of dark hair slicked back with way too much gel and a lean frame that borders on skinny. He’s wearing a suit that’s just a touch too big for him, but it still looks out of place here—too fancy for the cramped space I step into in this trashy bar.. 

His office, I guess, if it could really be called that. It’s small enough that I’m standing way too close to him from the moment I step in. He’s sitting behind a small desk that’s seen better days. Boxes of alcohol and flats of beer are stacked around the edges of the room, and it smells like sweat and mold in here.

"Leila Murphy." He doesn't stand up, doesn't offer me a seat, although there’s a folding chair in front of his desk. His eyes rake over me appraisingly, and I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest. "You're prettier than I expected."

I don't know how to respond to that, so I don't.

"Sit," he says finally, and gestures to a chair across from his desk.

I sit, trying to project more confidence than I feel. Everything about this, from the moment I made that phone call, screams mistake. But what the hell am I going to do? I’ve come this far. I need this, or I wouldn’t be here at all. I’m desperate, or I would never have called that number.

I’m sure that’s the case for everyone who finds themselves in this cramped, musty room.

I draw in a slow breath through my mouth. "Thank you for meeting with me."

"Right to business. I like that." He leans back in his chair, studying me like I fascinate him. "You said you needed thirty grand. To start.”

I swallow hard. It sounds like such a huge number. It is a huge number. I’m no idiot—I work in finance. I know how heavy of a burden that kind of loan from a reputable institution is, and Neil is the furthest thing from reputable that I can imagine. "That's right."

"For your mother's medical bills."

I nod tightly, feeling that prickle of desperation over my skin. "Yes."

He tilts his head slightly, appraising. "And you can pay it back."

"I can pay it back," I confirm, though the words feel hollow. We’re stretched so thin as it is, I don’t know how I’m going to scrape together regular payments. But maybe they won’t be that high. Maybe I can handle it. Maybe—

"What kind of work do you do, Leila?" Neil’s voice breaks through my thoughts, and I refocus.

"Financial analysis. I work for a consulting firm downtown. You know my boss, I guess—he gave me your card. I told you on the phone… Richard Brooks?”

“Ah, right.” Neil eyes me. “You make good money?”

Something about him makes me not want to tell him anything about how much money I make. But I’m sure he needs information about my financials, just like a bank would.

“Good money for my age,” I say finally. “I’m just out of college. I make a little more than the average, I guess.” 

He nods. “Alright. Here’s how this works. I’ll wire you the thirty thousand. Your bank is probably going to freeze it temporarily, so I hope you don’t need it for a week or so. You’ll pay me back a thousand a week, plus interest. You bring the cash here once a week, on Sundays. Understood?”

My lungs feel tight, and I try to regulate my breathing. “How much interest?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. "Thirty-five percent."

My stomach drops. Thirty-five percent is over another ten thousand in interest on top of the loan. And I doubt this is the last loan I’ll need from him. I feel dizzy at the thought of how much I could end up owing this man, how long I could be on the hook for weekly payments. 

I feel sick. My mom worked hard, sacrificed all her life, so I could go to a good college without student loans. I worked hard to get scholarships to offset the burden, and I got such perfect grades that, between that and her savings, I graduated debt-free. The kind of dream that most people in this country can’t even fathom being a reality.

Now I’m going to have to sink myself into worse debt than that. 

“That’s… a lot,” I manage. 

"That's the price of doing business with someone who doesn't require a credit check or collateral." His voice is calm, matter-of-fact. "You don't like the terms, you can walk away right now."

Except I can’t. Not really. There are no other avenues for me to get this money. No way for me to make sure my mom gets the treatment and care that she needs.

And he knows it. I can see it in the gleam in his eyes, in the patient way he waits for me to respond, like he’s just waiting for me to catch up. To agree to a loan that will compound until I don’t know how I’ll ever shake it off.

But the alternative is just as unthinkable.

I feel myself nodding before the words come out of my mouth. “Alright,” I manage, my voice thick. “Where do I sign?”

Neil smiles, reaching into a drawer. He slides a contract in front of me. It looks official— legal. I’m sure it would hold up in court—not that a man like him probably uses legal means to collect. I try to read it, but my thoughts are racing too fast for me to really retain any of the words on the pages.

“What happens if I fall behind on payments?” I look up at him. “If I’m late, or if I miss a week?”

“Interest goes up to forty percent on a missed payment. After three missed payments—” A predatory look is in his eyes. “I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out.”

My mouth goes dry. I can only imagine what that means, and I can’t let myself think about it for too long. I won’t miss any, I tell myself. I’ll eat cheap ramen every day for years if I have to. I’ll make sure Mom is taken care of, that she gets well, and I’ll pay it off. 

I hold out my hand, and Neil drops a pen into it. I can feel the satisfaction vibrating off of him; another rabbit caught in his snare. When I sign my name, it feels like I’ve signed my death warrant.