Chapter 8: Risk and Resolve

[The hard-earned money is gone again, what now?]

[I don’t think they’ll survive two weeks. Charlie and his mom will be beaten to death.]

[Charlie, if you can see this, I suggest you just steal your dad’s money.]

The comments hovered in my vision like floating advice from some distant friend. This time, their words hit home.

I was inspired by this comment.

A spark flared inside me. Why shouldn’t I? He owed us more than a few crumpled bills.

That bastard—why shouldn’t I take his money? Even hurting him wouldn’t be enough to make up for what he’s done!

I pictured taking back just a tiny piece of what he’d stolen—my safety, my childhood, my mom’s peace of mind.

Rubbing my hands, I waited until he fell asleep that night, ready to act.

His snores rumbled through the house, covering any sound I made. I moved quietly, heart pounding like a drum in my ears.

All his money was in the top drawer of his nightstand.

I’d seen him stash it there, always counting bills with greedy fingers.

But as soon as I touched the doorknob, I pulled back.

I hesitated, sweat beading on my forehead. Something inside me screamed—this isn’t the way.

No.

A single word, sharp and clear in my head. I stepped back, heart still racing.

School starts tomorrow. If I take the money and run, and both home and school can’t find me, they’ll definitely call the cops.

The consequences played out in my mind—cops, social workers, maybe even foster care. I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

If I get caught before I find my relatives, it’s over.

All this risk for nothing. My mom would be left behind, alone.

Besides, if I just take the money and leave, what about my mom?

She was too weak to run. If he turned on her, I’d never forgive myself.

I have to make arrangements for both of us before I can leave with peace of mind.

My plan had to include her. I’d never walk away alone.

[Where did Charlie go—back to sleep?]

[No sense of urgency, and you expect him to change his fate?]

The comments buzzed in my head, but I ignored them. I needed a real plan.

……

The next morning, I carried my backpack and pretended to go to school.

I walked slow, watching my shadow stretch in the morning light. I glanced over my shoulder, making sure Dad wasn’t watching.

But I actually went to a print shop.

The shop was two blocks over—rows of old computers, the owner half-asleep behind the register. The place smelled like paper and toner.

After printing the fake medical records I made, the shop owner looked at me suspiciously.

He raised one eyebrow, eyeing the forms, but didn’t say anything.

I quickly lowered my head, threw down a dollar, and ran.

I grabbed the printouts, heart thumping, and bolted for the door. My plan was risky, but it was all I had.

[He wants to ask for sick leave? Isn’t this unnecessary?]

[Upstairs is clueless—can’t you see? He’s afraid the school will look for him. If they call the cops, he’s done for.]

[Oh no, from another angle, I saw the print shop owner knows him and already called his teacher.]

[I saw it too. The teacher is preparing to contact his parents.]

[The abusive dad is about to find out.]

The comments blurred, panic clawing at my chest. I’d never been in such a tight spot before.