Triage

The text came in at 12:01 a.m., a little burst of light on the nightstand that yanked me out of a shallow, twitchy sleep.

You are just a glorified maid. Nobody loves you.

At first, half-awake and disoriented, I stared at the screen, the words blurring into nothing. My brain tried to turn them into spam, a misdial, a wrong number. But the name at the top of the thread was unmistakable.

Mia.

Of course it was.

The blue glow lit the dark room, carving out the shape of my dresser, the pile of scrubs slumped over the chair, the unwatered plant in the corner that I kept meaning to revive but never did because I was always either working, recovering from working, or preparing to work again. The apartment was silent except for the hum of the radiator and the occasional hiss of traffic below.

I could’ve put the phone down. I could’ve turned it face-down, rolled over, and sunk back into sleep. I could’ve ignored it the way “nobody loves you” implied I should. But this was my sister. And my family never sent messages out of the blue for no reason. There was always a prelude to the ask. An insult, a guilt trip, a reminder that I was, at my core, a utility. First they knocked you down, and then, while you were still dizzy and desperate to prove them wrong, they asked you for something.

I typed: What’s wrong?

No reply.

I watched the clock tick toward 12:05, then 12:11. Finally I put the phone down and lay on my back, eyes open in the dark. My heart didn’t pound; it just did that low, tired thud it’d perfected over years—resigned, braced, waiting for whatever was coming next. Because something was always coming next.

The phone rang at 3:18 a.m.

My mother’s name lit up the display: “Mom – Veronica.” I knew, before I hit accept, that we were getting to the real reason Mia had warmed up the line with that text.

“Evelyn!” My mother’s voice slammed into my ear at full hysteria. “Send forty-eight thousand five hundred dollars right now. Mia’s appendix ruptured! They won’t operate without cash.”

I sat up slowly, my mind snapping into focus. “What hospital?”

“Mercy General! She’s screaming, Evie, she’s in so much pain—”

Mercy General. I’d rotated there. I knew the ER attending who worked nights and the floor charge nurses. I knew the policy. And I knew the law.

“Hospitals can’t refuse life-saving treatment because someone can’t pay,” I said carefully. “EMTALA. They treat first and bill later.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Evelyn, don’t start. The doctor says they need the money before they can book the OR. She could die—”

Her performance was good. Just enough ragged breathing, enough stumbling on key medical words. If I hadn’t been an ER nurse, and if I’d been the old Evelyn—the one still desperate for her mother’s approval—I would have opened my banking app with shaking hands and started bleeding myself dry.

But the old Evelyn had died slowly, over years, every time I watched them treat my life like a faucet of money they could twist on and off. The old Evelyn died the first time I realized my sister’s “emergencies” always coincided with her credit card due dates.

“Okay,” I said, pitching my voice up like a panicked child. “Let me check how much I can move.”

In the ER, you don’t scream with a family while their loved one codes. You keep your hands steady and your voice level. We call it triage. You tag the people you can save, and you don’t waste precious time on the ones you can’t.

My family wasn’t coding. My family was malignant. A tumor wrapped around my finances and my self-worth since I was old enough to hold a job. You don’t negotiate with tumors. You excise them.

“My banking app is flagging the transfer,” I said. “Fraud protection hold. It won’t let me move that much overnight.”

“Then call them!” she screamed. “Override it!”

“The fraud department doesn’t open until eight, Mom. But listen—I can wire money directly to the hospital. An emergency medical transfer. It bypasses the hold if the recipient is a medical provider.”

A pause. “You can?”

“I need specific details so the system can verify. The doctor’s full name, his medical license number, and the CPT code for the procedure. And the bank needs a voice verification—you have to call me back and leave it on voicemail so they can archive it.”

“Why can’t I just tell you now?”

“Because the bank needs a recorded message!” I shouted, pushing my performance right up to shrill. “If they don’t get it, they’ll freeze my whole account. Do you want the money or not?”

I heard her breathing, fast and shallow. Not fear for a child. It was the same way she breathed before lying to a landlord, before talking herself into an overdraft.

Addicts don’t sound terrified. They sound greedy.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll go to the nurse’s station and get the information.”

“Hurry.”

I hung up. The room was silent except for the faint ticking of the clock.

Five minutes later: voicemail from Mom.

I stood, padded into the kitchen, poured a glass of water. Drank slowly. Walked back, sat down, pressed play.

“Evelyn, it’s Mom. I’m outside the OR. The doctor’s name is Dr. Anthony Mitchell at Mercy General. The billing code for the emergency appendectomy is four-four-nine-seven-zero. That’s the CPT code. Send the forty-eight thousand five hundred to the account I texted you, and we’ll take care of the hospital from here. Please hurry.”

I listened twice. Forwarded it to my secure cloud archive. Saved a backup on a thumb drive.

Wire fraud is a federal crime. People think of fraud as something nebulous, a slap-on-the-wrist thing. But try to obtain money under false pretenses using telecommunications—phone, email, text—and congratulations, you’re playing in felony territory. Cross state lines and it gets even more interesting.

By reading off a fake doctor’s name and a real billing code and tying them to a specific amount, my mother hadn’t just lied. She’d created an audio record of attempting to commit a crime.

She had just handed me a legal scalpel.

I checked the time—3:45 a.m.—and dragged a hand over my face. The woman in the mirror above my dresser looked older than thirty-two. Dark hair rumpled, skin pale, eyes ringed with echoes of too many night shifts. But behind the exhaustion was something hard and bright and sharp.

I pulled on my navy scrubs—habit, not personality—and they settled over my shoulders like armor. I clipped my ID badge to my chest, the little plastic rectangle still showing my stiff, professional smile from four years ago. They wanted a nurse, I thought. They were going to get one.

Chicago at four in the morning in winter is like a forgotten film set: empty streets, traffic lights flipping with no cars to obey them, icy wind sweeping trash along sidewalks like tumbleweeds. My breath puffed white as I crossed the lot to my car. Frost glimmered on the windshield in a thin crust.

Forty-eight thousand five hundred. The number sat in my mind like a brick. Not some ugly, lumpy Frankenstein monster of real hospital charges—nine hundred forty-two for anesthesia, three thousand for surgeon’s fees, fifty-four for a disposable stapler, twelve-eighty-five for a single dose of some obscure medication. Real surgery bills are padded with codes that look like someone’s cat walked across the keyboard. But forty-eight-five? That’s a payoff number. A collections number. An “if you don’t give us this by Friday” number.

Three weeks earlier, I’d stopped by my parents’ house to drop off Mom’s blood pressure meds. The kitchen counter was buried in envelopes with screaming red print: FINAL NOTICE, URGENT, IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED. American Express Platinum. Capital One.

Mia was there, perched on a barstool in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that cost more than my winter coat. She’d slapped the envelopes into a drawer, but not fast enough.

For six months, Mia had been “building her brand” on Instagram—content trips to Dubai and Tulum, champagne in infinity pools, designer bikinis on yachts. Captions like “grind now, shine later,” as if she’d manifested the money by positivity instead of swiping our mother’s credit card.

Mercy General’s parking garage was almost empty. I walked into the ER, badge catching the fluorescent light, and approached the patient information window.

“I’m checking on my sister, Mia Henderson. Admitted through the ER, suspected ruptured appendix.”

The clerk typed, frowned, typed again.

“I’m sorry. No record of any Mia Henderson being admitted today or yesterday. Nothing on the board for an appendectomy tonight.”

“Check the trauma log?”

She checked. “We haven’t had any acute abdomens all night.”

No Mia. No surgery. No Dr. Anthony Mitchell. The lab results confirmed exactly what I’d suspected: they weren’t trying to save a ruptured organ. They were trying to save a credit score.

Outside, I pulled up the location-sharing app on my phone. Three years ago, my mother had insisted we all download “FamTrack” to keep us “safe.” In reality, it let her track whether I was at work or daring to have a life she wasn’t benefiting from.

She’d forgotten that cameras record both ways.

Two blue dots pulsed downtown. Not at Mercy General. At a restaurant: The Prime Rib Vault. A place where the cheapest entrée cost more than my weekly grocery bill, where the windows were floor-to-ceiling glass so the people inside could be seen by everyone outside. The kind of place you went when you wanted to be watched.

Twenty minutes later, I was parked across the street. Even at that early hour, light blazed from the windows. A few couples lingered over drinks, reluctant to surrender their night.

Booth four—front and center, like they’d requested the best seat—held three familiar silhouettes.

Mia was in the middle, angled toward the street, laughing. Her hair flowed over her shoulders, her skin flushed with good wine, a glass of red in hand, head tipped back in carefree joy. Not exactly the posture of someone whose appendix had exploded.

Veronica sat to her left, cutting into a steak so big it looked obscene, her knife and fork moving with small, precise motions. Gary—my stepfather—sat across from them, topping off glasses from a bottle.

The table was cluttered with plates: creamed spinach, loaded baked potatoes, some kind of seafood tower. It looked like the glossy photos on the restaurant’s website. They weren’t just eating dinner. They were celebrating. Pre-spending money they didn’t have. Pre-spending my money, the forty-eight thousand five hundred they believed was hurtling through digital pipelines from my future to their plates.

I watched them for a long moment. This is the part, in movies, where the protagonist bursts through the doors, flips plates, throws wine, causes a scene. But storming in would give them what they always wanted: drama, a stage. They’d spin it into a narrative where I was cruel for “embarrassing” them.

She can afford it, Veronica would say. She doesn’t have kids. She’s a nurse; they make so much money. She owes us.

That’s the economics of abuse: the ones who give are rebranded as debtors. The ones who take become creditors, outraged that their payments might someday stop.

Instead, I shifted the car into drive and headed six blocks south, toward First National Bank.

Sarah—the bank manager—owed me one. Two years ago, her husband had come into the ER with chest pain. The resident shrugged and said “probably anxiety.” Something about the pattern on the heart monitor made my stomach flip.

“Let’s get a CT,” I’d said. “Now.”

The aneurysm in his aorta had been ready to burst. We got him into surgery in eleven minutes. Afterward, Sarah hugged me and whispered, “If you ever need anything—anything—you call me.”

Tonight, I was calling it in.

She met me at the side door at five in the morning, wearing jeans and a lumpy ponytail. She unlocked the door, deactivated the alarm, and led me to the main conference room—a glass-walled pod in the middle of the lobby. We were fish in a bowl, but nobody was around to watch.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “You look like hell, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Family,” I said. “And I need a document that’ll hold up if this goes south.”

“Restraining order? Cease-and-desist?”

“Something you use when you fire an executive for cause. A mutual termination of relationship. Complete severing.”

Her eyes sharpened. She went to a cabinet and pulled out a thick sheaf of paper. “Mutual release and settlement agreement. Boilerplate, but our lawyers swear by it.”

I scanned it—dense with legalese: whereas, hereby, covenants, releases, indemnifies. Exactly the kind of document that made normal people’s eyes glaze over and their panic spike. Perfect.

I filled in the blanks, my handwriting neat and slow.

Party A: Evelyn Marie Henderson. Party B: Veronica Lynn Henderson, Gary Thomas Henderson, and Mia Elise Henderson. Consideration: $5,000. Paid as a single cashier’s check upon execution.

Release: Party B forever waives all claims arising out of any familial, financial, or other relationship with Party A.

Then the additional clauses. This was the fun part.

No-contact clause covering phone, text, email, social media, in-person visits, and third-party contact—for the duration of their natural lives. A clause confirming I owed them nothing, now or ever. And a liquidated damages clause: breach meant they owed me $100,000 on demand.

Sarah whistled low. “You don’t mess around.”

“I don’t want them arrested,” I said. “I just want them gone. But I want leverage in case they forget how to read.”

“What’s the five thousand for?”

“Severance. Enough to keep American Express off their backs for thirty days. Something to make the hook shiny enough to bite.”

I wasn’t going to hand over forty-eight grand to people who’d already proven they’d abuse it. Five thousand was more than generous for people who’d never given me anything I hadn’t paid for twice over.

When the ink was dry, Sarah stamped the notary sections and slid it back.

I drafted the text carefully, my thumb steady.

The bank flagged the $48,500 transfer as potential fraud. They need you here in person with IDs to verify the receiving account. Come to First National, side entrance. If we don’t clear it by 7 a.m., the transfer will be canceled.

Once, I would’ve apologized in that message. Added crying emojis to show I was suffering too. Not today.

I hit send.

On our way, my mother wrote. Thank you, baby. We knew you wouldn’t let her die.

Mia followed: You should’ve just wired it to us like a normal person. This is so dramatic.

Sarah, who’d read upside-down like any good nurse or banker, snorted. “Charming.”

“They think they’re coming to pick up their winnings,” I said. “We’ll let them.”

The twenty minutes before they arrived felt stretched thin, like someone had pulled time like taffy. Sarah got us both coffee from the break room—cheap drip that left a scorched taste at the back of my throat. I stood, paced, sat. Stood again.

They arrived at 6:10 a.m., smelling like garlic butter, charred meat, and expensive wine. Mia still wore her trendy sweater dress and thigh-high boots, hair immaculate. Veronica’s makeup was smudged just enough to suggest tears. Gary’s tie was loosened, eyes yellowed with sleep deprivation and booze.

“Evie!” Veronica burst into the conference room. “Thank God you’re here to fix it.”

Mia flopped into a chair. “We need to get back to the hospital. They’re holding her in pre-op.”

I looked at her. Clear eyes. No morphine buzz. No hospital band. Perfectly coiffed for someone allegedly on the verge of septic shock.

“Before we do anything,” I said, “we’re going to go over a few things.”

I slid a printed sheet across the table. Hospital admissions log from Mercy General, timestamped.

“Zero admissions under ‘Mia Henderson’ in the last six hours. No emergency appendectomy scheduled. No Dr. Anthony Mitchell on call. No surgeon by that name on staff at all.”

Veronica sputtered. “There must be a mistake—”

I opened another folder. Credit reports. Statements. American Express Platinum. Final notice. Minimum payment demand equal to the full balance: $48,500. Issued three weeks ago. Due this morning.

“Where did you get this?” Veronica hissed.

“You gave me your login once. Remember? When you wanted me to check a refund.”

Then I picked up my phone and pressed play.

Veronica’s voice filled the glass-walled room: “The doctor’s name is Dr. Anthony Mitchell at Mercy General. The billing code is four-four-nine-seven-zero. Send the forty-eight thousand five hundred…”

Silence when it ended.

“You fabricated a doctor, a surgery, and an emergency,” I said quietly. “You used medical billing codes to try to get me to wire you money. That’s attempted wire fraud. A felony.”

Veronica’s face crumpled. Full-body sobs. It might’ve once undone me. Now I watched it like a symptom.

Gary slammed the table. “Families help each other. You’re not some stranger we scammed.”

I slid another page forward—contact information for the U.S. Attorney’s office, and the email of a fraud investigator I worked with.

“You wouldn’t,” Veronica whispered.

“I don’t want to,” I said. “I don’t want my mother in prison. But I am done being your cart horse.”

The word landed. I watched it register on Veronica’s face—the callback to a night twenty years ago, when I was sixteen and Mia was twelve, sitting at our sticky kitchen table. I’d had my AP Bio textbook spread open, fluorescent yellow highlighter in hand, the overhead light buzzing like it was going to explode. Mia was sprawled on the couch, crying because she wanted a designer dress for a dance she wasn’t even old enough to attend.

“You don’t need things like that, Eevee,” Veronica had said, her tone matter-of-fact, one hand stroking Mia’s hair. “You’re practical. You’re the strong one. You’re built like a cart horse.”

I’d frowned. “A what?”

“A cart horse,” she’d repeated, smiling faintly like it was a compliment. “You can pull a lot. You’re sturdy. You don’t need the extras. But Mia—she’s a show pony. She needs special care. That’s just how she is.”

A cart horse. A beast of burden. Something you feed just enough to keep it working. You don’t braid its mane or take it to shows. You hitch it to the cart and expect it to pull.

I’d carried that description in my gut like a stone for sixteen years. Working twenty-four hours of class and thirty-two hours of part-time jobs while Mia cried about shoes. Telling myself someday they’d see me, thank me, realize I was more than a beast of burden.

They never did. You don’t thank your water heater for working. You don’t ask it how its day was. You just expect hot water when you turn the tap. If it stops, you don’t grieve. You kick it and curse.

That 3:18 a.m. phone call had been them kicking the water heater.

I placed the mutual release agreement in the center of the table.

“You sign this. All three of you. Today. And I won’t forward the voicemail to anyone. In exchange, I give you a cashier’s check for five thousand dollars.”

“What is this?” Mia squinted at the paragraphs.

“It says that as of the moment you sign, I am no longer your daughter or your sister in any practical sense. You have no claim to my money, my time, or my presence. You agree not to contact me. Ever.” I paused. “It’s a severance agreement. I’m firing you.”

Gary snorted. “You can’t decide we’re not family. Blood is blood.”

“Blood does not give you the right to commit crimes against me.”

Mia pushed back her chair, standing so fast it screeched against the floor. “This is ridiculous. We’re not signing anything. You don’t get to lord your stupid nursing degree over us.”

She marched toward the door like she expected us to call her back, to beg her to sit down. I didn’t move. I didn’t flinch.

“What happens if we just walk?” Gary asked, uncertainty creeping into his posture. He’d always gone where the loudest voice pointed him. For years, that had been Veronica’s.

Today, the paper on the table was louder.

“Then I call the investigator,” I said. “And I send a copy of the voicemail to Mercy General’s legal department, since you used their name in your script. They might not enjoy being dragged into your fraud attempt.”

Mia stopped in the doorway, hand on the handle. “You don’t have the guts. You’ve never stood up to Mom in your life. You’re just pretending to be tough because we scared you.”

I picked up my phone. My thumb hovered over the share icon.

“Try me.”

We stared at each other across the room, an invisible line drawn between us. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel smaller under her glare. I didn’t feel like the awkward, practical older sister in the corner of every family photo. I felt done.

Mia’s gaze flicked to the paper, to the pen, to our mother’s shaking shoulders. She was doing math—five thousand now and delayed prison maybe, versus nothing now and so many unknowns later.

“Mom,” she said. “Sign it.”

“Mia—”

“Sign it. You made the call. You used the code.” She jabbed a finger at the table. “Sign it and get the money.”

Gary went first. His signature scrawled across the line, messy, almost illegible. “Whatever,” he muttered. “This is all bullshit anyway. She’ll come crawling back eventually. They always do.”

Veronica took the pen next. Her hand shook so badly she had to brace it with the other. For a second, I thought she’d throw it at me instead. But she bent over the paper and wrote her name, pressing so hard the pen left indentations even where the ink didn’t fully take.

Then Mia. She sat, eyes narrowed, holding the pen poised.

“If I sign this and something happens to you later—if you get sick or broke—you can’t come to us for help.”

I almost laughed. “Correct. I would never come to you. That’s the point.”

She sighed dramatically, like the star of her own reality show, and scribbled her name. Quick, jagged, angry strokes.

Sarah notarized it with a series of satisfying thumps and swirls of ink. She examined their IDs, compared signatures, and stamped every page.

“It’s done,” she said quietly to me.

I reached into my bag for the cashier’s check—requested from Sarah before they’d arrived, while she’d printed the agreement. Five thousand dollars. My hand didn’t tremble as I placed it on the table.

Veronica’s eyes zeroed in on it like a hawk spotting a mouse. She lunged, fingers closing around the paper, clutching it to her chest.

“Thank you, baby,” she gasped, tears still clinging to her lashes. “You’ll never regret this. We’ll pay you back, I swear—”

“You won’t,” I said. “Because after you walk out of this room, we are done. Permanently. Do not call me. Do not text me. Don’t show up at my apartment or my work. If there’s a crisis, call 911 or each other. I am not your emergency contact anymore.”

Mia rolled her eyes. “It’s not like we won’t see each other at Christmas.”

“You won’t. Because I won’t be there.”

Veronica stared at me like she was seeing me for the first time. Not the dependable background character in her life’s drama, but something else entirely. Something that had teeth.

“You’re really going to throw away your family over a little mistake?”

“You didn’t make a mistake,” I said softly. “You made a choice. You chose money over my trust. You chose a lie over my safety. You chose your show pony’s image over your cart horse’s life. I’m just responding.”

Gary stood, adjusted his jacket. “Let’s go. We’ve got calls to make.”

They shuffled out of the conference room, the scent of garlic and wine fading with them. Through the glass, I watched them cross the lobby and push through the side door, already arguing, voices sharp even through the walls. Mia snatched the check from Veronica’s hand, waving it in the air. Gary gestured angrily at the parking lot. Within seconds, they were three small figures in the cold, dissolving into the blue-gray morning like they’d never been inside at all.

I didn’t watch them drive away. I simply turned my head toward the sunrise. The first thin line of light split the clouds, turning them a gentle pink. The city was beginning to stir—a bus rumbling past, lights flickering on in office buildings, early risers hurrying with coffee cups. The world didn’t know that, in a small conference room behind a locked glass door, a family had just been declared legally dead.

“You okay?” Sarah asked quietly.

I thought about it. For the first time in thirty-two years, my life no longer had a leak. No more quiet siphoning of savings into their emergencies. No more being jolted awake by calls that felt like gunshots. No more rewriting my budget around their impulsive disasters. No more bracing.

I felt lighter. Hollowed out in places, yes—the kind of hollow that aches when you press on it—but also the kind that makes room for something new.

“I think so,” I said. “Or I will be.”

She squeezed my shoulder. “If they bother you again, bring me that paper. We’ll get some very expensive lawyers involved.”

“Thank you,” I murmured. And I meant it more than she knew.

Twelve months later, I stood in a different apartment with a paintbrush in my hand.

This place had white walls, big windows, and a tiny balcony overlooking a park instead of a parking lot. I’d moved six months after cutting them off—not because I thought they’d show up, but because I wanted a place untouched by their ghosts. A place where every corner didn’t remind me of a phone call I’d dreaded or a transfer I’d regretted.

On the easel was a watercolor I was completely failing to control. The sky bled into the buildings, the trees ran together. It was a mess. I loved it.

I’d started painting after walking past a community center sign: Watercolor for Beginners, No Experience Needed. The old Evelyn would have thought, I don’t have time. I don’t have money. I don’t deserve to take up space doing something frivolous. This Evelyn walked inside, signed up, and bought cheap brushes without feeling like she owed anyone an explanation.

I’d also started doing other things that would have seemed impossible a year ago. I took a weekend trip to Michigan, just to see the lake. I bought a plant—a real one, not the dying thing from my old apartment—and I actually watered it. I signed up for the RN bridge program I’d been putting off for three years because every time I’d saved enough for tuition, someone in my family had needed it more.

Nobody needed it more now. It was mine.

My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. I ignored it, dabbing more color into the sky.

It buzzed again. And again.

Old habits. A buzzing phone still made my heart skip in that old, anxious pattern. I walked into the kitchen and picked it up.

Unknown number. The preview showed: Your mother was taken by ambulance to the hospital. She’s been asking for you. Please call me. – Pastor Rick

For a long moment, I stared at the screen.

This was the scenario people always brought up when I told them I’d gone no contact. “But what if one of them dies? Won’t you regret it?” They asked it with such certainty, as if the answer was obvious, as if guilt was the only reasonable response. As if my entire life should be built around preemptively rehearsing grief for people who’d never grieved for me. As if the theoretical sadness of a future loss should outweigh the very real pain of my present.

I scrolled up, checking the number. Definitely not one I knew. Probably the church she’d joined after deciding religion made her look respectable.

The old Evelyn would have called back immediately, thrown herself into crisis mode, driven across the city in her scrubs, taken on the role of dutiful daughter without question, and sat by a hospital bed while Veronica recounted her illness in a voice heavy with expectation and implication.

The new Evelyn set the phone down on the counter.

Maybe it was real this time. Maybe she was genuinely in an ambulance, genuinely frightened, genuinely asking for me. And maybe that was sad—deeply, fundamentally sad—in a way I’d have to sit with someday. But sad didn’t mean I had to go back. Sad didn’t mean the contract was void. Sad didn’t undo what they’d done in that conference room, or what they’d done for thirty-two years before it.

I walked back to my easel. The paint had started to dry, leaving faint tide lines where the water pooled. I dipped my brush in clear water and touched it to the edge of a cloud, watching pigment soften and spread.

Some people think boundaries are cruel. That saying no makes you selfish, that stepping away makes you heartless.

But I knew, now, what it really was.

It was triage.

In the ER, we color-code incoming patients: black tags for the ones we can’t save, red for critical, yellow for serious but stable, green for walking wounded. You don’t stand there wasting IV lines and compressions on a black-tagged patient while a red one bleeds out beside you.

My family had handed me their black tag at that bank table. They’d proven, in a fluorescent-lit fishbowl, that they would choose my destruction over my safety every single time if there was money at stake.

Sometimes survival means firing your own blood.

My phone buzzed again. I reached over, turned it face down, and let the sound fade into the background.

Then I picked up my brush, and kept painting.

THE END.

Lila Hart

Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.

Lila earned her degree in History and Archival Studies from the University of Edinburgh, where she cultivated her passion for documenting the past and preserving cultural heritage. Her expertise lies in combining traditional archival techniques with modern digital tools, allowing her to create comprehensive and engaging collections that resonate with audiences worldwide.

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