Wes stared up at the thin crack running across the plaster ceiling.
It looked like an ugly lightning bolt stretching from the light fixture to the far corner of the bedroom.
Ten years had passed since the car crash took his parents off the highway, and some days he still felt like he was standing on the edge of the ditch waiting for someone to pull him out.
Nothing in the room was really his.
The lumpy mattress belonged to the house, the faded brown blanket smelled like cheap laundry detergent, and the walls were so thin that every harsh word downstairs carried straight through the floorboards.
CLATTER!
A heavy glass slammed onto the kitchen counter below, followed by the scrape of a chair against old linoleum.
“There is nothing left in the checking account, Colleen!” Walt Grimes shouted, his voice rough and mean.
“Every single month we are short because of your sister’s kid! Why the hell am I paying for another mouth when I can’t even afford to fix the alternator on the truck?”
“Walt, please keep your voice down,” Colleen said, her voice shaking like dry leaves in the wind.
“He is my family. My sister is gone, and he has nowhere else to go. He works his shifts, he goes to class, and he helps out when he can.”
“He helps out? With what, fifty bucks of grocery money while I bleed dry?” Walt spat, pacing across the kitchen floor with heavy, stomping boots.
“I have fed that boy for ten years! He is twenty years old, Colleen!”
“He isn’t family, he is just a line in a budget that doesn’t balance! I canceled our trip to the coast because of him! Either he starts paying real rent or he packs his junk into a garbage bag and gets the hell out of my house!”
Upstairs, Wes squeezed his eyes shut.
His chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a thick nylon strap around his ribs and pulled it hard.
A line in a budget that doesn’t balance.
Walt said it every two weeks like clockwork, but hearing Colleen’s voice crack and tremble always hurt ten times worse.
Over the past few years, she had shrunk.
Her shoulders stayed hunched, her smile had disappeared under dark circles, and she looked at the kitchen floor more than she looked at anyone’s face.
Wes wanted to smash his fists through the drywall, but punching a wall did not pay the electric bill.
BZZZ!
BZZZ!
BZZZ!
His cheap prepaid phone vibrated violently against the nightstand, buzzing right next to his alarm clock.
He opened one eye and checked the time.
It was barely five in the afternoon, which meant he had less than an hour before his graveyard shift at the convenience store down on Seventh Street.
He reached out and grabbed the plastic case.
The caller ID flashed with Reggie’s name.
CLICK.
“Wes! Pick up the damn phone!” Reggie yelled the second the call connected.
Heavy breathing crackled over the speaker, followed by the wet hum of windshield wipers and a distant horn blaring.
“Reggie, I’m heading out to my shift in twenty minutes,” Wes muttered, rubbing his face with his free hand.
“I don’t have time to listen to whatever hustle you are running today.”
“Screw your shift at the store, man! Listen to me!” Reggie’s voice went higher, tight with pure panic.
“I am in a massive bind. I got into a fender bender on the bypass and the car is stuck, and I need you to cover a private client for me right now!”
“Huh? What are you even talking about?” Wes asked, sitting up on the edge of the mattress.
“You haven’t told me what your actual job is for a whole year. Every time I ask, you change the subject or buy a round of beer to shut me up. Call a cab and handle your own business.”
“I can’t call a cab! Wes, you don’t understand how serious this is!” Reggie gasped, his words tumbling out fast.
“This isn’t a food run or some sketchy package drop! It’s an exclusive private booking! Ten times your normal daily rate! Twelve hundred dollars, Wes! Twelve hundred clean cash in your hands for three hours of work!”
Wes went completely motionless.
His grip on the phone tightened until the cheap plastic shell creaked in his palm.
Twelve hundred dollars was almost two entire months of stocking shelves, mopping spills, and getting yelled at by drunk customers at three in the morning.
“Twelve hundred?” Wes whispered, his throat going dry.
“Reggie, what kind of shady crap are you mixed up in?”
“It is not shady, it is high-end VIP service!” Reggie snapped, coughing into the microphone.
“Listen to me, man.
You have to put on your best suit.
Not that thrift-store garbage you wear to church, either.
Use the stage stuff you had from your Alden Playhouse days!
The fitted one!
I am sending you the location pin right now.
You have three hours to get there, look sharp, and follow the instructions to the letter.
Don’t blow this, Wes.
If you don’t show up, we are both dead in the water, I swear to God!”
CLICK.
The line went completely dead.
Wes stared blankly at the dark screen, his heart hammering a violent rhythm against his ribs.
PING!
A bright white notification banner dropped from the top of the display.
[System Prompt: External Direct Transfer Initialized]
[Deposit Source: Encrypted Private Escrow]
[Amount Credited: $1,200.00 USD]
[Current Available Balance: $1,320.45 USD]
Wes stared at the digits.
The number did not disappear.
It was real money, sitting right in his personal checking account.
His hands started shaking.
Twelve hundred dollars.
With that, he could throw cash on the kitchen counter, shove Walt’s loud mouth shut, and give Colleen enough breathing room to buy groceries without crying over the receipts.
“Okay,” Wes breathed out, his voice shaking with nervous energy.
“Okay, let’s do this.”
He kicked off his worn sneakers, ripped open the shower curtain, and turned the knob all the way to hot.
SHHHH!
Steam rolled through the tiny bathroom in thick white waves.
Wes scrubbed his skin under the scalding spray until his neck and chest turned bright red.
When he wiped the bathroom mirror with his forearm, the tired kid with dark shadows under his eyes stared back at him.
He looked ragged, worn down by classes, bad food, and Walt’s endless verbal beatings.
“Wake up,” Wes told his reflection, slapping cold water onto his cheeks.
“Act like you belong somewhere.”
He marched back into the bedroom, dropped to his knees, and pulled a long black garment bag out from under the bed.
Inside was the charcoal two-piece suit from the Alden Playhouse fall production.
The drama club had folded, the senior actors had all moved on, but Wes had kept the wardrobe piece.
It was well-tailored, sharp around the waist, and made of decent wool that caught the light with a quiet, expensive sheen.
He pulled the white dress shirt over his shoulders, fastened the buttons, and slipped into the slacks.
The cut was snug across his chest and back, forcing his posture straight.
He tied a dark silk tie with practiced theater hands, adjusting the knot until it rested flush against his throat.
In the cracked mirror, the broke orphan was gone.
In his place stood an upright, composed young man who looked like he carried briefcases full of contracts into high-rise boardrooms.
Costume work was just armor, and right now he needed every plate he could get.
He stepped out into the hallway and moved silently down the wooden stairs.
The kitchen was quiet now.
Walt had gone out to the garage, leaving behind the sour smell of stale beer and fried bologna.
Colleen stood by the stainless-steel sink, her back turned to the doorway.
She was staring out the small window into the overgrown yard, clutching a damp yellow rag in both hands.
Her shoulders were slightly hunched, her faded floral blouse hanging loose on her frame.
Wes stopped at the kitchen threshold.
Seeing her like that twisted a bitter knot deep in his stomach.
For ten years, she was the only person who had tried to shield him from Walt’s spite, taking the hits and the shouting while her own life drained away into daily misery.
“Aunt Colleen,” Wes said softly.
Colleen jumped, turning around quickly with wide, startled eyes.
“Wes? Goodness, you scared me.” She blinked, her gaze sweeping over his charcoal suit and polished shoes.
“Where… where are you going dressed like that? You don’t wear a tie to Seventh Street, do you?”
“Special shift tonight,” Wes lied smoothly, keeping his voice steady and calm.
“A private corporate inventory event over on the north side. The manager said it pays overtime and covers uniforms.”
“Oh,” Colleen murmured, her eyes lingering on his face with a mixture of worry and exhaustion.
“Be careful out there, okay? Don’t stay out too late on an empty stomach.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Wes said, giving her a small, confident nod.
“I’ve got it handled tonight.”
He turned before she could ask anything else, grabbed his keys from the wooden hook, and pushed through the front door into the cool evening air.