Chapter 8: Pawn Station
237 words
The pawnshop smelled of stale cigarettes and desperation. I placed the platinum band on the counter—my wedding ring. The last piece of Mark I had left.
The broker, a man with grease under his fingernails, didn't even look me in the eye. He spun the ring, weighing it.
"Two hundred," he grunted.
"It's worth two thousand," I croaked. My voice was raspy from the cold. "Please. I need Antibiotics. I have an infection."
He looked at my muddy clothes. He smelled blood in the water. "Take it or leave it, lady. You don't look like you’re in a position to negotiate."
I swallowed my pride. "Fine."
He slid the cash across the glass. It was robbery, but I took it. I bought a burner phone and a bottle of generic amoxicillin from a sketchy bodega down the block.
Sitting in an alleyway, I powered on the phone and checked my credit report using my social.
Score: 350.
It had plummeted overnight. Barbara had stopped paying the joint debts the second I "died." Credit Score Repair would take a decade, if I ever got my identity back.
But then, a notification popped up on a local news feed.
MEMORIAL SERVICE FOR LINDA VANCE TO BE HELD TOMORROW.
I stared at the screen. She was fast-tracking the funeral. She needed the body count official to collect the check.
I swallowed a pill dry. I had an invite.
End of Chapter 8
