The fluorescent hum of the convenience store felt particularly oppressive as Matt finished stacking the last of the canned beans on the bottom shelf. His shift was almost over, and the thought of a few hours of undisturbed sleep was a sweet lure. He was just reaching the next batch of cans when his phone buzzed. It was Maddie. Her name flashed on the screen, a sudden, jarring splash of light in the dim store. He answered, a casual "Hey, what's up?" on his lips, but the word died there.
"Matt!" Maddie's voice was a choked sob, raw and desperate, tearing through the quiet of the store. "Mom collapsed! We're bringing her to the hospital right now!"
Matt's blood ran cold, a sudden icy grip around his heart. The canned goods he'd just stacked seemed to sway in his vision. He pushed off the shelf, his movements jerky, the indifference of moments before shattered into a thousand shards of panic. "I'll be there in a few minutes," he managed, his voice a rushed, tight rasp. He didn't wait for Fred, who was still counting the last of the day's earnings. A quick, urgent nod to his friend, a blur of motion as he snatched his backpack, and he was out the door, the bell above jingling a frantic, mocking farewell.
The evening was dry and cool, the lingering dampness of occasional rain giving way to a crisp chill as the city sank into deep shadows. Matt didn't notice. His feet pounded against the cracked asphalt, a desperate rhythm against the frantic beat of his heart. He walked so fast, a human projectile aimed at the nearest train station, that everything around him became a streaky blur of muted colors and indistinct shapes. He narrowly avoided a collision with a street vendor, then sidestepped a group of loitering figures, his apologies lost in the wind. His mind was a singular, terrifying loop: Mom. Hospital. Again.
This was happening more often these days. He saw it in his mind's eye: her sudden collapses, the way her strength would simply drain away, the shallow, gasping breaths that would catch in her throat. Each time, the doctors at the city's single, perpetually overcrowded hospital would offer the same dismissive diagnosis: malnutrition. As if that explained the sudden, terrifying drops in her vitality. As if they truly cared to find a deeper cause.
The 15-minute train ride was a torment. The rhythmic clack of the wheels on the tracks usually lulled him, but today it was a maddening drumbeat, counting down the seconds he wasn't by her side. He stared out the grimy window, the landscape a familiar blur of decaying buildings and the occasional, desperate patch of green trying to reclaim the concrete.
Suddenly, a familiar prickling sensation, sharper this time, shot through his side, pulling him from his frantic thoughts. He instinctively glanced around the train car. There were only somber faces, eyes fixed on their own reflections in the darkened windows or lost in the weariness of their day, each person minding their own business. He couldn't care less. He had more pressing matters at hand. Besides, the train was slowing, his stop approaching.
All he could think of was his mom, her frail frame, the way her smile had grown weaker with each passing month.
A bitter resentment began to simmer beneath his fear, a slow burn in his gut. Malnutrition. It was the kingdom's convenient excuse, a blanket diagnosis for the slow decay of its working-class citizens. The Kingdom of Silos, with its grand, fully fortified island just across the wide, sprawling settlement of the common people. They lived in their opulent isolation, protected by high walls and shimmering energy fields, while the rest of Media, his corner of the Silos world, choked on the dust of what remained.
Food, water, and mineral resources were scarce after the meteor crashed, the history books had told him. But that scarcity wasn't equally distributed. Fresh produce, nutrient-rich meats, purified water – these were luxuries, whisked away directly to the households of the elite class, to the kitchens of the royales. What was left for public consumption was the "junk" food: highly processed, preserved canned goods, instant noodles, synthetic protein bars. The same goods they sold in the convenience store he worked at, the same goods he brought home to his family.
A wave of guilt washed over Matt, cold and sharp, like a splash of icy water. He was part of the system, selling the very poison that slowly withered his mother. All he could afford to bring home was this junk, just enough to keep their stomachs full, to stave off the immediate pangs of hunger. He was lucky, in a twisted way, that he could sneak off and eat a few of the products at the store that were supposed to be discarded because they were expired. The store owner, a gruff but understanding man, turned a blind eye in those moments. "Don't bring any of that stuff home, Matt," he'd warned, his voice stern, "or the authorities will breathe down my neck. And yours."
His guilt curdled into a simmering anger, a hot, tight knot in his chest. The kingdom did not care. They broadcasted hollow promises of new developments, of efforts to recover natural resources, to alleviate hunger and malnutrition. But it was all just noise, a distant hum from their island fortress. In the meantime, small local governments, like the one in Media, were free to govern however they wanted. And here, that meant a focus on the red-light district economy, a desperate, thriving underworld of fleeting pleasures and quick cash. And one, single hospital, standing like a lonely, beleaguered sentinel in the middle of an over-populated, dying community.
As he finally approached the hospital, the sight hit him with the force of a physical blow. The line of sick people snaked out from the entrance, a silent, shuffling testament to the city's suffering. Old men coughed into thin rags, children whimpered, their faces pale and drawn, young women leaned against the wall, their eyes vacant. It was a tableau of despair, and Matt felt a familiar, helpless rage tighten his jaw, his teeth grinding.
He immediately spotted Maddie. She was standing near the entrance, her small frame rigid, talking to a medical attendant. Her eyes, usually bright and full of life, were fresh from crying, red-rimmed and pleading. Just behind her, slumped in a hard plastic seat, was his mom, almost lifeless, her head lolling to one side.
Matt pushed through the crowd, a frantic energy propelling him forward. He could just make out Maddie's words, her voice thin and desperate. "Please, get my mother checked already. She's very weak—"
The medical attendant, a stocky man with a bored expression and eyes that seemed to have seen too much suffering to care, simply shook his head. He gave a dismissive wave of his hand and turned, walking away without another word.
"They won't let you in?" Matt immediately asked Maddie as soon as he was within earshot, his voice tight with disbelief, his voice barely a whisper.
Maddie shook her head, her shoulders slumping. "No," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "They said we've already maxed out our yearly hospital privilege."
"But we've only been here a couple of times!" Matt's exasperation boiled over, his voice rising, a sharp edge to his tone.
"I know," Maddie said quietly, sniffing back another wave of tears. "Someone must have tampered with our records." Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. "Again—"
Matt's fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white. This wasn't the first time. The system was rigged, designed to squeeze every last drop from people like them. "What do they want from us now?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous, a tremor of suppressed fury running through it.
Maddie looked up, her eyes wide and fearful. "Fifteen thousand pesos," she answered, the number a crushing weight in the air between them.
Matt felt a cold shock, as if the air had been sucked from his lungs. Fifteen thousand pesos. That was twice his monthly salary. He didn't have that kind of money. His teeth gritted, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
"He said he'll get her into triage reception for two thousand," Maddie continued, her voice shaking, "and then when we have the rest, they'll get her a bed." Tears threatened to pour again, glistening on her eyelashes.
Matt's hand instinctively went to his wallet. He pulled it out, his fingers fumbling with the worn leather. He had saved. Scrimped. Denied himself everything. For Maddie. For her future. This money was meant for her tuition, a sliver of hope in their bleak existence. He pulled out two crumpled one-thousand-peso bills. It was almost all he had.
"This was supposed to be for your tuition, Maddie," he said, his voice raw with the sacrifice, the words tearing at him.
Maddie nodded, her eyes fixed on the bills, then on him. "I know," she said, her voice firm despite the tears. "But I don't care. Mom comes first." She snatched the bills from his hand and ran, a desperate, determined sprint after the medical assistant who was already disappearing down a crowded hallway.
Matt's heart sank, a heavy stone dropping into his chest. He looked at his mother, so frail, so still, her face pale under the harsh hospital lights. She looked like she was just sleeping, but he knew better. He sat beside her, gently took her head, and placed it over his shoulder, feeling the unnatural coldness of her skin. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady himself, trying to push down the rising tide of despair that threatened to overwhelm him.
He had no choice. The words echoed in his mind, a grim, undeniable truth. He pulled out his phone, his fingers trembling slightly as he navigated to Fred's contact. He typed out a message, the words stark against the screen.
Can you send me the address of that blood bank you regularly go to?
He held his mom's cold, lifeless hand, the warmth of his own slowly leaching away, as he waited for a response. The sounds of the hospital, the muffled coughs, the distant cries, the constant murmur of suffering, seemed to press in on him, sealing his decision.