They Sold Me For Rice

Chapter 4: The Word He Never Said Before

Richard recovered first. Lucas gave him that.

The old man laughed, a warm, rolling laugh that filled the room and softened every edge in it. "Of course, of course. Take your time, son. I would never want you to feel pressured." He waved a hand at the cake. "Diane, give the boy another slice. He looks like he needs it."

Just like that, the moment was patched over. Derek picked up his phone. Diane cut the cake. Conversation started up again, a little too bright, a little too fast, the way people talk after a glass has broken.

Lucas ate his second slice and said nothing else.

But he felt Richard watching him the whole time. Not angry. Measuring. Like a man who has just noticed a crack in a wall he thought was solid.

They left at ten. Diane hugged him at the door and held on a second longer than usual. "You're a good boy, Lucas," she murmured. "Always have been."

He said goodnight. He did not say thank you.

The car was cold. Vanessa sat in the passenger seat with her arms crossed, staring out at the dark road. Lucas drove carefully, both hands on the wheel, and let the silence stretch. He had forgotten this about her. How she could make a silence feel like a punishment.

In his first life, he would have cracked within five minutes. He would have apologised, asked what he did wrong, offered to fix it.

Seven minutes passed. Then eight.

"Say it," Vanessa said finally.

"Say what?"

"Whatever is going on in your head." She turned to face him, and the streetlights slid across her face in stripes. "You embarrassed my father tonight. In front of everyone."

"He asked me for twenty thousand dollars in front of everyone."

"He asked you for help." Her voice rose and cracked. "He's scared, Lucas. These people are dangerous. And you sat there with your arms folded and said you'd think about it, like he was a stranger asking for change."

Lucas kept his eyes on the road.

It would have been easy to explain. The date. The sky. The ninety one days left. He could have told her everything and watched her face change. But he knew exactly how that story would end, because he had lived it. Vanessa would not believe him, or worse, she would. She would run straight to her father with the news that Lucas knew something, had something, and the Fords would never let him out of their sight again.

"I don't have twenty thousand to spare," he said.

"You have savings."

"For our future."

"This is our future! This is my family!" She slapped the dashboard. "Since when do you care so much about money? You never used to."

He almost laughed. Never used to. As if he had been born with a bottomless wallet and a gift for forgiveness.

"Since when do I care?" he said quietly. "Vanessa, how many times have I helped your father?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

"The gambling debt, three years ago. Fourteen thousand. Derek's failed restaurant. Nine thousand. The roof repair. The car. The hospital bill when your mother had her gallbladder out, and she never even called to say thanks." He kept his voice flat, almost gentle. "I've never asked for any of it back. I never will. But I'm tired."

For a few seconds, the only sound was the engine.

"Tired," Vanessa repeated.

"Yes."

"Of my family."

"Of being the only one who gives."

She stared at him. Something moved behind her eyes, quick and sharp, and it was not hurt. It was something closer to alarm. The look of a person who has leaned on a railing for years and suddenly felt it give.

Then her expression softened, melted, and tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. She was very good at it. He had never noticed how good.

"I didn't know you felt that way," she whispered. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

She reached across and touched his arm. A week ago, that touch would have undone him. He would have pulled over, held her, said sorry for making her cry. Because that was what you did when the person you loved was hurting.

Now he felt the warmth of her palm through his sleeve and thought only: She is checking whether it still works.

"I'm telling you now," he said.

"Okay." She sniffed and wiped her cheek. "Okay. We'll talk about it properly. Tomorrow. I'm sure we can figure something out, just the two of us."

Just the two of us, with her hand already steering. He recognised the technique, now that he could see it from the outside. Agree, soothe, delay, and wait for him to wear down overnight.

It had worked for five years.

"Sure," he said.

They parked in the underground lot of their apartment building. Vanessa went up ahead of him, heels clicking on the concrete, and he stayed behind a moment with the engine ticking as it cooled.

The apartment was small. Two bedrooms, one used as storage. A kitchen with a window that looked onto a brick wall. He stood in the doorway and looked at it as if seeing it for the first time. A cheap sofa. A television. Her shoes by the door, his shoes lined neatly beside them.

Nothing here was worth keeping.

Vanessa went straight to the bedroom and shut the door. A minute later he heard the shower start. He sat down at the kitchen table in the dark, took a pen from the drawer, and pulled a grocery receipt toward him.

On the back, he wrote one word.

Leave.

He looked at it. Then he crossed it out and wrote another, underneath.

Prepare.

It was not enough just to walk out. Walking out left the Fords with a story, a wounded daughter, a villain to blame. They would pour their energy into hunting him, and Richard knew people. Dangerous people. A man could not stockpile food and fuel while looking over his shoulder.

He needed to go quietly. He needed a reason that sounded natural, even sad.

And he needed money, as much as he could get, without letting a single dollar pass through Richard's hands.

He wrote a list, slowly, in small neat letters. Cash out the savings in stages, not all at once. Sell the car. Find a warehouse, outside the city, away from the flood zones. Learn what his ability could really do.

That last item made him stop.

He had not tested it yet. He had barely let himself think about it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, since the moment he woke up, there had been a feeling like a door standing open in a dark house. A cold, clean pull, just on the edge of his awareness, waiting.

He set down the pen.

The shower was still running. He had maybe ten minutes.

Lucas held out his hand over the kitchen table, palm down, and closed his eyes. He thought of the pen. He thought of the space behind his eyes. He thought, very simply, take it.

The air rippled.

When he opened his eyes, the pen was gone.

And in his mind, quiet as breath, a small bright room unfolded, and in the exact center of it, floating in the nothing, was a single black pen.