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the fine print. Maybe it was suicidal, but leaving my signature without bothering to read the document first felt like my last act of freedom.
    They pretty much owned me anyway.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” my mom started, but I just grabbed her hand like a kid being torn away in a crowd, like holding on to her puffy fingers was the only thing I had left.
    â€œI don’t want to talk about it,” I said. “It just sucks, and it’s happening, and talking won’t change it. You’ll get what you need. Don’t worry.”
    â€œBut they want you to kill people.” She tried to pull her hand out of mine, but I wouldn’t let her.
    â€œBetter them than you,” I said. “Better them than us.”
    She nodded. I don’t think she agreed. But my mom has always tried to be a good person and play by the rules. She goes to church and leaves something in the offering plate. She pays her taxes—or she used to. Mama taught me from a very young age that if I worked hard and pulled my weight, I would eventually succeed. We scoffed at people who got evicted and at our neighbor, who sometimes chose a new phone over paying her water bill and had to borrow our shower.
    Turns out we were screwed either way.
    Now I’m more practical, more ruthless. I’ve always liked little rebellions and sticking it to the Man, whoever he is. And if I can solve all our problems in five days, then I will do whatever it takes to live through it and keep my mom safe.
    Or so I told myself two nights ago.

    The next morning, I pulled the yellowed scrap of notebook paper out of my locket, uncurling it and running a finger along uneven, childish script.
    I want to find my dad.
    More than anything, that was what I’d wanted every day since he left. Just to see my dad again. For every birthday, I didn’t want a party—I just wanted him. I asked Santa and the Easter bunny and even left a note for the tooth fairy. He’d become this mythical, larger-than-life figure of my imagination, and I was too faithful to give up the dream, even after thirteen years without a single card or phone call.
    But the suddenly grown-up version of me had bigger problems than wanting love and answers for childhood abandonment, than wishing for a picture of my dad to put in the locket he left behind for me. I scratched out my old dream and turned the paper over to write something new.
    I want to survive the next five days.

    Now here I stand, on the doorstep of Eloise Framingham’s house. I kiss my lucky locket and tuck it back down my collar. The welcome mat I’m standing on is worn, but the small porch is swept clean. There are two cars in the driveway, a minivan and a compact, both with ghosts on the hood. I shift the fake fruit basket to my hip, checkthe gun in my waistband, and ring the doorbell. It feels like three years pass by the time a shadow darkens the window glass. I pray for the hundredth time that she’s ancient and nearly gone.
    A guy in his twenties answers in a ratty sweatshirt. “Can I help you?” he says. He looks like he’s forgotten what sleep is.
    â€œI have a delivery for Eloise Framingham.” My smile is so big he has to know I’m screaming inside.
    â€œJesus, who would send that?” he says, voice raw. “She can’t even eat anymore.”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I just deliver them.”
    â€œSo leave it on the porch or whatever. I don’t care.”
    He turns to go inside and is about to shut the door in my face. I can’t let that happen.
    â€œThere’s a message, too,” I say, desperate. “A singing telegram.”
    I don’t even know if they have those anymore, or what you would sing to someone who’s dying, but I’ve got to get to Eloise. Now.
    â€œA message? You can give it to me.”
    I shrug in apology. “Sorry, if it’s not in person, I don’t get paid.”
    â€œFuck