Seconds To Zero

CHAPTER 3

“No,” Evan whispered. “That’s... that’s a mistake.”

“Prices went up last month,” the man said, shrugging. “Supply and demand. Not many neuro-surgeons left. Most of them bet their licenses and lost.”

“I have twenty-two,” Evan said. He looked at his father on the floor. Arthur was twitching now. A small line of foam appeared at the corner of his mouth. “And he has fourteen. That’s... that’s thirty-six. We have thirty-six years total.”

The man shook his head. “We can’t drain the patient. If we take his fourteen years to pay for the surgery, he hits zero and dies on the table. You can’t pay with his life.”

Evan felt like he had been punched in the stomach. Of course. You couldn't spend the life of the person you were trying to save.

“So I need to pay it,” Evan said.

“You need fifty years upfront,” the man said. “You have twenty-two. You’re short.”

“I’m short by twenty-eight years,” Evan calculated.

“Thirty,” the man corrected. “There’s a transfer f*e.”

Thirty years.

Evan looked at his hands. They were shaking. He had spent his whole life being careful. He never bet on the weather. He never bet on sports. He never even played cards for fun. He saved every minute. He worked in the freezing rain while others played. He thought he was safe.

But the house always wins. And life was the cruelest house of all.

“I can get a loan,” Evan said desperately.

“Not for thirty years,” the man said. “Not with a delivery boy salary. The bank algorithms will reject you in a microsecond. You have no collateral.”

The man bent down and packed his drone into the case.

“I can give him a shot,” the man said. “It will stabilize him. Stop the shaking. But it only lasts for twelve hours. After that... the degradation speeds up. He won’t wake up.”

“Give him the shot,” Evan said. His voice was hollow.

The man pressed a silver injector into Arthur’s neck. Hiss. Arthur’s body relaxed. His breathing smoothed out. He looked like he was just sleeping.

“That’s fifty hours,” the man said. “I’ll deduct it from your account.”

BEEP.

Evan felt the vibration in his wrist. 22 Years became 21 Years, 11 Months, 28 Days.

“You have twelve hours, kid,” the man said. He walked to the door. He paused, his hand on the handle. “If you don’t have the years, say your goodbyes. It’s cleaner that way.”

The door clicked shut.

Evan was alone.

He sat on the floor beside his father. The apartment was quiet again. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the soft rain against the window.

Thirty years.

He needed thirty years in twelve hours.

It was impossible. He made half a day per shift. To get thirty years, he would have to work for sixty years without stopping.

He looked at his father’s face. Arthur had raised him alone. Arthur had taught him to read paper books. Arthur had taught him that gambling was a trap for fools. “We work for our time, Evan,” he used to say. “Easy come, easy go. But what you earn, you keep.”

Evan stood up. He walked to the window.

Below, the city of Neo-Veridia glowed. It was a sea of light in the darkness.

He could see the giant screen of The Exchange in the distance. It was miles away, but it was so bright it lit up the clouds.

BET YOUR SECONDS. WIN A DECADE.

Evan felt a strange sensation in his chest. It was hot and cold at the same time. It was fear. But it was also something else. Anger.

He had followed the rules. He had done everything right. And it wasn't enough. The system didn't care about hard work. The system only cared about the gamble.

If he wanted to save his father, he couldn't be the boy who never bet. Not anymore.

He looked at his wrist.

21 Years.

It was a lot of time. It was a fortune to a beggar. It was a lifetime to a fly. But to the High Rollers at The Exchange? It was a single chip on a poker table.

Evan walked to the kitchen counter. He picked up his helmet. It was still wet.

He looked at his father one last time. Arthur looked peaceful. He didn't know that his son was about to do the one thing he hated most.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Evan whispered.

He put on his helmet. He zipped up his jacket.

He didn't grab his delivery bag. He wouldn't need it. He wasn't going to work.

Evan walked out of the apartment. He locked the door. He ran down the four flights of stairs.

He burst out into the night air. The rain had stopped, but the streets were wet and slick. He jumped on his bike.

He didn't turn toward the depot.

He turned his handlebars toward the center of the city. Toward the bright lights. Toward the place where dreams went to die or to fly.

He needed thirty years.

He had twenty-one to gamble.

The math was terrible. The odds were against him. But for the first time in his life, Evan didn't care about the odds.

He pedaled hard, disappearing into the neon glow.