Page 12 of Never Distract a Biker

ScarlettWood, what have you gotten yourself into?

The thought tickles my brain, but I shove it aside. There’s no room for second-guessing. Not anymore.

My apartment is a haven of silence when I slam the door behind me. The lock clicks – a flimsy barrier from whatever’s outside, but it’s all I’ve got. I drop my keys on the counter, my movements frantic, driven by an urge I can’t control. The envelope lands on my bed with a soft thud, and suddenly, it’s just me and this fortune in this tiny room.

"Okay, let’s see you," I say, ripping it open.

Ten bundles stare back at me, bands around them screaming their value. One hundred thousand dollars. My hands shake as I touch the crisp paper. It feels like touching fire like every bill is a potential burn that could consume me.

"What in the…." I gasp, my voice barely above a whisper. Disbelief numbs my mind while gratitude tries to seep through. This money ... it’s freedom. It’s hope for Mom. A chance to start over. But it’s also a siren call, luring me into depths unknown.

"What if someone had hidden this cash in my locker?" I ask the empty room. “What happens when the owner comes after me?”

Fatigue wins over, and I sink onto the mattress, surrounded by banknotes and the scent of possibility. My eyes trace the neat stacks of cash, each bundle a paradox—freedom and chains intertwined. It feels like holding a lifeline while teetering on the edge of a trap. Questions swirl in my mind: Who left this for me? What do they expect in return? Is it even for me? The crisp scent of the bills carries a strange weight, pulling me toward relief yet anchoring me in unease. I let out a slow breath, trying to quiet the storm inside me. This money could save my mom, but it could also put me in danger.

"Later. I'll figure it out later."

For now, it's just the money and me and the pulsing realization that my life has taken a turn down a road with no signposts or pointers.

"Relief," I whisper, fingering the bands around the money. "And danger." They're a perfect mix of emotions now mingling in the pit of my stomach.

I rake my fingers through my hair, the dark room swallowing my silhouette. With every breath, relief battles unease, andassurance spars with doubt. Sleep is a relentless tide, pulling me under despite the tempest in my head. I lie down, thinking only of Mom—her laugh, her strength—before this wretched illness sapped them away.

"Mom," I murmur into the void as sleep claims me. "You will be back to your usual self soon."

The alarm drags me out of my restless sleep, a shrill cry slicing through dreams I can only half-remember. Fragments linger—My mom’s soft and reassuring voice blends into shadows of faceless figures looming closer. My chest tightens as the images slip away, leaving behind a hollow ache. I jolt upright, gasping, the dream dissolving into the stark reality of my cramped apartment. My heart pounds against my ribs, the weight of the hundred grand in the duffel bag pulling me back to the present. There’s no time for lingering fears or second-guessing now; this money is meant for Mom, and by Thor’s hammer, I will use it for her, no matter what consequences might follow. I bolt upright, urgency gripping me. This money is meant for Mom, and by Thor’s hammer, I will use it for her and face whatever consequences later.

As my feet hit the floor, I run into the bathroom for a quick shower. With the bundles of cash stuffed into my old duffel bag, I set out for the hospital feeling light and heavy at the same time. The sun is up, dispelling the earlier chill of the day and mirroring my internal feelings. My heart is full of hope for my mom, and this hope is painting everything with the hue of new beginnings.

"Come on, Scarlett," I urge myself with a steady voice. "Time to save her."

I lock the door behind me, and the weight of the duffel constantly reminds me of the risk I may be taking. My sneakers pound the pavement, the rhythm syncing with my racing pulse.

At the hospital, the sliding door parts like the Red Sea, and I stride through with a determination and confidence that surprises even me. The crisp air-conditioned breeze hits my face, momentarily chilling the warmth of my resolve. My palms are clammy, gripping the strap of my duffel bag like it’s a lifeline. The faint antiseptic scent mingles with the steady beep of monitors and the low murmur of voices, grounding me in this familiar yet daunting reality. My heartbeat matches the rhythm of my steps, a drumbeat of hope mixed with an edge of desperation as I move closer to the receptionist’s desk. This place, with its sterile smells and muted beeps, has been a second home lately—a home of waiting and hoping.

"Good morning," I greet the receptionist, my voice betraying none of the storm inside me. "I'm here to pay for my mother's treatment."

"Of course," she replies, her smile practiced, yet kind. "If you'll tell me her name and the doctor in charge of her treatment."

“Emily Woods and the person in charge of her treatment is Dr. Williams … Dr. Frank Williams.”

She punches the information into her system and, after a moment, informs me I need to see the doctor before making the payment.

“Is everything alright with my mother?” I ask immediately, feeling scared, but the lady assures me that it’s standard practice to speak to the doctor in charge to ensure that the patient’s treatment plan is well understood before payment is made.

"Thank you," I say, heading towards the elevator and pulling the strap of my bag closer. This is mom's only hope, clenched tightly in my fist.

The doctor's office feels cold and sterile, with stark white walls interrupted only by generic landscape paintings that fail to soften the room’s harsh edges. A faint smell of antiseptic lingers in the air, mingling with the sterile chill of air conditioning. I sit across from him, my hands clenched in my lap to stop them from trembling, while he studies a folder with the kind of focused intensity that makes my stomach churn. His desk is immaculate, devoid of anything personal, and the absence of warmth in this space mirrors the uncertainty that gnaws at my insides. "We've done all we can with the current treatment plan," he says, his gaze steady, analytical. "The plan in place is barely keeping her alive these past weeks, and it’s time for more aggressive treatment."

"Anything," I say, the word slicing through the tension like a scalpel. "Whatever it takes."

He nods, jotting notes into a file that seems too thin to contain a life, my mother's life. "We'll need to schedule her for another round of tests as soon as possible."

“Why?”

“To determine if the malignant cells have spread or not. The results of these tests will determine our course of treatment.”

"Let's do it." The money cooling in my bag, that unexpected blessing, charges my words with a power I didn't know I had. It's my mother's lifeline, and I'm not letting go.

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