Samuel made sure the first things were handled: a roof, even if it leaked, and food, even if it was meager. He scraped together what little he could, turning it into a month's rent and a small supply of groceries. His mother sat quietly as he moved through the room, unpacking, arranging, forcing order onto a space that already smelled of mildew. There was no other way. She wouldn't survive without him, so he bore it.
By the week's end, he was back in the streets with tomas. He hadn't changed much—the same sharp grin, the same restless hands—only now the money he carried seemed to flow smoother, faster. Samuel slid back into it like someone pulling on an old jacket: the hustles, the runs, the watching of corners and the whispers of buyers. Nights smelled of smoke and fuel. Days blurred with errands that always carried the edge of danger. He told himself it was temporary, just until his mother could stand on her own feet. But deep down, he knew every deal tied another knot around his neck. Still, he didn't flinch. Hunger drove him forward. Fear lived inside him, yes, but it lived beside determination, not over it.
At home, things slipped further. His mother didn't heal. She unraveled. The loss had eaten through her, and the man's shadow still lingered in every silence. Bottles began to line the corners of the one room like trophies of surrender. What Samuel brought home never lasted. Food spoiled, untouched, while alcohol seemed to multiply. He'd walk in and see her with glassy eyes, her hands trembling, but her lips steady against the rim of a bottle. He wanted to shout, to shake her, to break the cycle. Once he tried hiding the money—she found it. Another time he argued, but her eyes glazed past him like he was a ghost.
There were nights he sat outside the room, listening to her muttering, crying, laughing to herself. He realized then that some battles couldn't be won with rage or muscle. Watching her dissolve broke something in him—not clean, not dramatic, but a slow, jagged tearing. He carried on carrying her, but the weight kept growing, and no matter what he did, he couldn't lift her out of it. He was a boy clawing against tides, furious and powerless, despair pressing against every breath.
The weekend came heavy. Samuel had spent the day on his feet, moving from block to block with tomas, trading smoke for bills, trading time for a thin promise of survival. By the time he reached the narrow lane that led to their room, night had already settled, a blanket thick with the smell of rain-soaked trash and wood smoke.
He pushed the door open and froze.
His mother was sprawled on the floor beside the mattress. Her arm was bent awkwardly, a half-empty bottle glinting by her fingers. Her chest rose once, shallow, then stilled.
"Ma." His voice cracked the silence, but she didn't stir.
He dropped the small bag of groceries, shaking her shoulders, calling her name again and again until the panic scraped his throat raw. Her skin felt clammy, her lips pale. He didn't think. He lifted her, clumsy and desperate, stumbling out into the night with her weight dragging against his arms. The streets blurred past in streaks of shadow and broken light. Every step hammered the same thought into his skull.
Not like this. Not like this.
At the hospital, the fluorescent glare was merciless. Nurses swept her away from him, voices clipped and urgent. He was left in the corridor, chest heaving, the taste of copper and fear thick on his tongue. Minutes dragged until a doctor finally appeared, his face carved with weary lines.
"She's in liver failure," he said flatly. "We'll need to run more tests, but right now, the only option is a transplant."
Urgently.
Samuel stared at him, the words striking harder than any blow he'd taken in the street. The hallway seemed to tilt beneath him. A transplant—something bigger than money, bigger than hustling, bigger than anything he could steal or sell. He pressed his hands into his face, breath shuddering.