Free Death Spiral by Janie Chodosh

Even then I knew it.
    I wonder if the lie was about being clean or because she knew she was dying.
    A familiar voice whispers in my head: She betrayed you. She lied because she didn’t love you. She didn’t care .
    Angry tears burn my eyes. I blink hard and swallow. Maybe there is a reason Mom wouldn’t go to a doctor. Maybe Melinda is telling the truth and Mom was in some clinical trial, trying to get better, and something went wrong.
    The effect of this thought is relief, but then I look at Melinda again—the washed-out skin, the dark circles beneath her eyes, her tangled mat of hair and trembling fingers—and I remember what she really wants. Money. I twist out of her grip and back away.
    â€œGo to the hospital if you’re so sick. Why are you bothering me?”
    She starts to say something, but someone pounds on the door. A man calls her name, and she doesn’t finish her thought. She looks at me, and in a loud panicked whisper says, “Quick, go. He can’t see you here.” She snatches the flier from my hand and scribbles a number. “Call Al,” she says, pushing Jesse and me down the hall into the back room and pointing at Fat Guy, who’s perched on the edge of the bed, holding a joint and watching a lion tear apart a gazelle on TV. She stuffs the flier in my bag. “He’ll know how to get in touch with me.”
    â€œWait! What’s going on? You’re not making any sense. Why—”
    Melinda dashes out of the room before I can finish my question.
    Fat Guy doesn’t move or acknowledge our presence. He just stares at the bloodshed on TV and takes a hit off his joint as if two strange teenagers getting shoved into his room is an everyday occurrence.
    I have no idea what to do, so I go to the door and peak out to see a tall, stringy guy, wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans, and black sneakers. His back is to me, but from the way his hand is clamped around Melinda’s wrist you don’t need to be on the AP track to tell he didn’t stop by for a cup of tea and some biscuits.
    â€œWhat’s happening out there?” Jesse whispers, squeezing up beside me.
    Before I can answer, the guy glances in our direction. I’m not sure if he sees us, but my heart stops all the same. I grab Jesse to keep my legs from buckling.
    I can’t believe it. It can’t be, but it is. I couldn’t forget those heavy-lidded charcoal eyes, that long, narrow face and pointy chin, that stubby, wind-burned nose and small, twitchy mouth. It’s that same guy who came to our apartment the day Mom died.
    â€œYou have a debt to pay,” I hear him tell Melinda.
    My stomach curdles at the words. A hard chill runs down my spine. I close the door and spin around to face Fat Guy.
    â€œWho’s that with Melinda?” I blurt.
    Fat Guy scratches the hairy strip of belly his shirt doesn’t cover. “No clue. She calls him the Rat Catcher.”
    â€œThe Rat Catcher?” I say, not understanding and not sure I heard him right. “What does he want?”
    Fat Guy snorts, turns away from the TV, and fixes me with his bloodshot eyes. “You want my advice?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “Mind your own business.”
    I stand with my back against the door, unsure whether to go out and help or take Fat Guy’s advice. I close my eyes, and when I do, the grotesque image of Melinda’s face haunts me, death tearing at her flesh. Those words echo in my ears: You have a debt to pay . Melinda’s face morphs into Mom’s. The Rat Catcher’s at our apartment now. It’s Mom’s wrist he’s holding, and when he looks up and sees me peeking out from my bedroom, the glint in his eyes is enough to keep me cowering.
    If Melinda’s really in trouble, I have to do something, but when I open my eyes and crack open the door, they’re gone.
    I take a deep breath to clear my head, but there