Elliot Myers stood in the hallway of his childhood home and listened to his aunt cough.
The sound came from behind a closed door at the end of the hall—wet, rattling, the kind that scraped at the throat instead of leaving it. He waited for it to pass before moving. Timing mattered. Everything did.
The house smelled like boiled vegetables and old carpet cleaner. Familiar. Suffocating. The kind of smell that settled into your clothes and never quite left, no matter how many times you washed them.
He adjusted the sleeves of his jacket, fingers lingering near the pocket where he kept his cigarettes. He told himself he wouldn't smoke inside. His parents hated it. His aunt coughed enough already.
I'll just be quick, he thought.
Elliot stepped lightly toward the kitchen.
He knew where her purse would be.
She always set it on the chair by the table, close enough that she could reach it if she needed to leave in a hurry, far enough that she wouldn't trip over it when her legs shook. He'd noticed that weeks ago. He noticed things like that. Patterns. Habits. Weak points.
The purse was there.
Brown leather. Worn at the corners. A zipper that caught slightly unless you lifted it just right.
He sat at the table, not touching it yet.
His hands trembled.
Don't rush, he told himself. That's how you screw it up.
The coughing stopped down the hall. Silence followed—thick, listening silence. Elliot waited, counting his breaths. One. Two. Three.
Nothing.
He reached for the purse.
The zipper whispered open. Inside were tissues, a half-empty pill bottle, a folded envelope, and a thin wallet. Elliot took the wallet first. Habit. The envelope next.
He froze.
The envelope wasn't sealed. Inside were bills. Not much. Carefully folded. On the front, in shaky handwriting, were two words:
Treatment fund
Elliot swallowed.
Of course it is.
He closed his eyes briefly, a pressure building behind them. He hadn't expected that—not really. But he hadn't not expected it either.
She probably has insurance, he thought.
There's probably more somewhere else.
This won't be the difference.
He counted the money with practiced speed. Enough to last him a few weeks if he was careful. Enough to cover rent for a place that wouldn't ask questions. Enough to buy groceries without feeling sick at the register.
Enough to matter.
His fingers hesitated.
Down the hall, his aunt coughed again—shorter this time, weaker.
Elliot closed the wallet and slid it into his jacket.
He returned the envelope to the purse, folding it exactly the way it had been. He zipped it shut, aligning the teeth carefully so it would catch the same way it always did.
When he stood, his knees ached.
He hated that part the most—not the guilt, not the fear. The way his body reminded him how old he was. How tired.
As he turned to leave the kitchen, his reflection caught him in the dark window above the sink.
Late forties. Greying hair he hadn't bothered to cut properly in months. Eyes that avoided their own gaze.
"You'll fix it later," he muttered under his breath.
The words tasted hollow.
He returned to his room and shut the door quietly.
The house resumed its fragile rhythm—his aunt's breathing, the distant hum of the refrigerator, the ticking clock in the hall. Elliot sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the wallet in his hands.
I'll pay it back, he told himself.
When I get back on my feet.
The lie settled easily.
It always did.
End of Chapter 1