Chapter 3Watch Me Die In Your Machine

I followed her old electric scooter through the winding suburban streets until she pulled up at a nondescript warehouse on the edge of town.

I thought Mom had quit her job years ago to be a full-time caregiver.

I followed her into the bright, buzzing chaos of the factory floor. She approached a supervisor with a submissive, practiced smile.

"Sorry I’m late, Sarah. Things at home..."

The supervisor didn't look up from her clipboard. "You're late too often, Mary. Family is fine, but the line doesn't wait."

Mom nodded frantically, her apologies becoming more humble, more desperate. "I know, I know. I can only come in once the girls are settled for the night."

The supervisor sighed, handing her a bin of small electronic components. "That kid of yours is a bottomless pit for money, isn't she? How long has your husband been pulling double shifts at the construction site? Months since he's been home?"

She paused, looking at Mom. "And your other one—June? At the last school meeting, she was sitting all by herself. Someone asked where her parents were, and she just stared at her shoes. Don't let one child's illness drown the whole family."

I lunged forward, hands on my hips, fuming. Daisy isn't a "child's illness"! She's my sister! Don't talk about her like that!

Mom took the parts. Her hands were covered in small, raw nicks. "Daisy is my daughter. We have to try. And as for June... I’ll make it up to her. When Daisy is stable, I’m taking June to the theme park she’s been begging for."

I nodded, then shook my head.

Mom, I can't go. Keep the money for Daisy. Stop hurting yourself.

The supervisor softened her tone. "Finish this batch and go home. I’ll make sure the pay is right. Buy the little one something nice."

Mom put on her reading glasses. I realized then—her eyes were failing. When did that happen? When I was little, she could point out a tiny bird in a tree a hundred yards away. Now, she was squinting at parts an inch from her face.

She worked until 2:00 AM.

When she finally got home, she stood at the front door, her hand on the light switch. She looked at the traction machine in the dark, and her hand dropped.

She crept over, watching my "sleeping" face in the moonlight. She reached out to stroke my hair, but stopped herself halfway, her hand trembling. She tucked the quilt in one last time and disappeared into her bedroom.

I breathed a sigh of ghost-relief. Good. Go to sleep, Mom. Don't find me yet. Don't let me ruin your sleep.

I followed her into her room. She pulled out a battered notebook from her nightstand.

Medical bills. Tuition. Mortgage. Overtime.

She wrote and erased, her face a mask of exhaustion. Finally, she took the earnings from tonight and moved them into the column labeled "June’s School Trip."

She closed the book and looked toward the door, a faint, tired smile on her lips.

I looked at the book and started to cry. You don't need that column anymore, Mom. Put it back in the hospital fund.

I lay down on the bed beside her, just like I did when I was a toddler. But this time, I couldn't feel the warmth of her body.

The next morning, Mom woke up with dark circles under her eyes.

The smart-home hub suddenly began to chime. Its mechanical voice echoed through the quiet house:

"Storage space full. Please clear files immediately."