1. An Offer You Can’t Refuse
“I promiseI’ll have the money to you by the end of the week,” I lied. My breath was coming out in little fluffy white puffs; it was fucking freezing on the Boston sidewalk.
“Faith, honey, I know you’re doing your best. But this is the fourth time in four weeks we’re having this conversation. You can’t afford this program—I’m sorry.” The clinical manager sighed. “But you know your brother can apply for assistance. We can revisit his application after that.”
“Please don’t kick him out. Please, just give me one last chance. He’s been getting better,” I pleaded. My head was throbbing; I felt close to tears. “If he gets released, he’ll get sick again. It’ll take weeks to get an assistance application in. The doctor said he can’t handle much more before it’s too late.”
“Like I said, I’m so sorry. But there’s nothing I can do,” she said. “There’s a waitlist to get into this program, Faith. It’s filled with very sick people who can privately pay for the treatment.”
“But that’s not fair!” My eyes welled up—I cried when I got mad. “Just because someone’s rich doesn’t mean they should get help before my brother!”
“I know,” she said. “But we need money in order to keep the trials going. I hate to turn your brother or anyone else away, but I have to keep my eye on the big picture. We’re trying to save people’s lives.”
“I get it. Just give me until the end of the week, please. I’ll get the money to you. I’ll pay the whole ten thousand dollars,” I babbled. There was no way in hell I’d be able to come up with that much cash by Friday, but I had to say something. If my brother got discharged, his health would relapse, and I’d lose him.
And I’d lost enough, thank you very much.
“I can give you until Friday, but that’s it,” the manager said. “And I mean it, Faith. If you don’t come up with the money, we’ll have to discharge him. I’m so sorry.” She hung up.
I clutched my phone, shivering in my thin jacket. The freezing, gray weather mirrored my mood. Ten thousand dollars by Friday. It might as well have been a million; that’s how farfetched the amount was. But Lucas was my brother. He was fourteen. He was too young to die.
“What am I going to do?” I asked the empty sidewalk. I looked up at the clouds, praying I’d find an answer in the sky.
But there was nothing. There was no one who could save us.
I wrapped my arms around myself and headed back to Kylie’s.
“You should just signup for the app I told you about. Remember Regina Dixon?” Kylie asked. “She met some dude, and he paid her four hundred dollars just to pee on her. You could line up a whole parade of freaks and make bank!”
“Thanks, Kylie.” I put my face in my hands. “I’ll think about it.”
Kylie was trying to get me to sign up on the Sugar Finder app, this creepy platform where young women posted pictures of themselves and old, rich pervs DM’d them and asked them for dates.
“You need to get on there. I’m telling you, the men are wicked rich—it’s members only—they have to fill out a financial profile and everything.” Kylie lit up a joint and held it toward me.
“No thanks,” I said, waving it off. “So why aren’t you on it?”
“Who says I’m not?” Kylie shrugged. “But you’ve got the face, Faith. Dirty old men would pay a lot for a face like yours.”
“So they can pee on it?” I arched an eyebrow.
“Maybe.” She had another deep drag and laughed. “But seriously, what else are you going to do? Ten G by Friday is no joke. And I’m not trying to pile on, but Joe’s coming back this weekend, and he doesn’t want you sleeping on our couch anymore.” Joe was Kylie’s boyfriend, and he was a total dick. To be fair, I’d been staying with them in their tiny, gross apartment for two weeks without paying rent. I didn’t have any money. Every cent I had to my name had gone toward Lucas’s treatment, and there was nothing left.
So not only was my brother about to get kicked out of the trial and lose access to the only treatment that had managed to work for his rare form of cancer, we were going to be homeless again.
I sighed. “What’s the name of the app?”
Sugar Findermade it clear: plenty of dirty old men lived in the Boston area. Within five minutes of creating a profile, a lot of them “liked” my picture and had been texting me, asking me out for dinner and drinks. I was about to make a list and start accepting invites when another message popped up: An Offer You Can’t Refuse.
Curious—and also, dreading a dick pic—I clicked on the message.
Hello:
I work for a prominent dating agency in Boston and saw your profile. We would like to meet you ASAP. Our client is offering a six-figure signing bonus. Please respond to this message to set up a meeting.
It was signed User467533.
I read and re-read the message, the phrase six-figure signing bonus drawing my eyes again and again. Was User467533 an actual person who worked for an actual dating agency? I doubted it, but there was only one way to find out. Six figures was… Six figures.
I messaged them back. I’m interested in learning more.
They immediately texted back with an address in the South End, along with a meeting time: three thirty that afternoon. They instructed me to bring my driver’s license. See you at 3:30, Faith. This will be worth your while.
I googled the address, which belonged to a business named AccommoDating, Inc. I checked it out—it appeared to be a high-end dating agency. But this was the internet, the land of make-believe. My phone pinged again with a message from another Sugar Finder member, a dirty old man named John White. He wanted to buy me a drink. I didn’t respond.
Instead, I texted User467533. See you then.
Then I crossed myself for good measure.