Chapter 2
Eve's POV
After Vicki left, I slumped alone on the sofa. The shard of glass cuts into my palm as I clutch the broken frame. The photograph inside is a mosaic of our former lives—David's smile, Vicky's missing-tooth grin, my own eyes bright before the fatigue set in like concrete.
I just feel so tired, I don't have the energy to care about so much anymore. I'm really, really tired.
I don't remember falling asleep, but when my eyelids flutter open, the living room is drenched in midnight blue. The digital clock blinks at 23:46, its glow casting long shadows over the scattered condom wrappers and pizza boxes Vicky left behind.
My head pounds in sync with the cough that rips through my chest.
"Vicky?" I croak, voice raw from shouting. The only response is the distant wail of a siren, fading into the urban hum.
"Where the hell are you now?" I mutter, pushing myself off the floor. My joints creak like rusted hinges as I stumble to the bathroom, where the medicine cabinet mirrors my reflection: sunken eyes, graying roots, a woman decades older than thirty-five.
I shake two pills from the bottle—antibiotics for the chest infection that's lingered since winter, and a muscle relaxant for the chronic back pain from years of lifting patients.
The pills stick in my throat, tasting like disappointment. In the kitchen, I spot the leftover pizza from two nights ago, cold and congealed on a paper plate. I nuke it for thirty seconds, the microwave's hum the only soundtrack to this empty apartment.
As I chew the rubbery crust, I try not to think about Vicky's sneer when she called me "uptight." What does she know about being uptight? About worrying whether the electricity will stay on long enough to warm her goddamn pizza?
I toss the plate into the sink, where it clatters against yesterday's dishes. There's no energy for cleaning, not when my next shift starts in five hours.
Fuck it! I don't have the luxury to worry about all that! I've got to go to work! I need to earn money!
The next day blurs into a familiar nightmare. Mr. Jenkins in Room 312 throws his oatmeal again, this time aiming for my face. "This slop is fit for pigs!" he roars, spittle flying.
I wipe the mess from my scrubs, biting my tongue so hard I taste blood.
Dr. Mann corners me in the supply closet, his cologne suffocating. "You know, Eve," he purrs, finger tracing the neckline of my scrub top, "a dinner date could solve all your little... financial troubles." I duck under his arm, heart racing.
"I have a daughter to get home to," I snap, though the words ring hollow. Home is a warzone without Vicky.
Another shitty day is over. I dragged my feet on the way out of work, as usual, stopping by for a drink. I really can't stand it without having one.
At Fire & Fang, Tina slides a Jack Daniel's across the bar, neat this time.
"Charles missed three days of school," she says, rubbing her temples. "Fever again. The doc says it's just a virus, but—" Her voice cracks. I take a long sip, the whiskey burning away the taste of Mr. Jenkins' oatmeal.
"Vicky's still MIA," I admit, staring at the condensation on my glass. "Probably crashing at some friend's place, smoking God knows what."
Tina's eyes soften. "Kids these days, huh? All they want is to feel alive." She pours herself a shot. "My ex-husband says I coddle Charles, but what else can I do? He's all I got."
We all laughed bitterly, perhaps we are not living for ourselves, but for our children. We clink glasses, ice cubes clattering.
"To our kids," we say in unison, the words heavy with unspoken prayers.
I returned home, but Vicky still wasn't there. I muttered a few words about "this girl" and let it go. I was still upset inside and didn't feel like calling her—after all, she often didn't come home for two days straight. I took a shower, took my medicine early, and went to bed.
Another shitty day, another night, another empty apartment.
Today is already the third day since Vicki ran away from home!
I felt something was wrong, so I started calling Vicky, but she didn't answer.
I dial Vicky's number for the tenth time, listening to her chirpy voicemail: "Hey, it's Vicky! Leave a message, maybe I'll call back... maybe not!"
I hang up, tossing the phone onto the couch. She's done this before—stayed out for a night, even two, crashing at Margaret's or some boy's place. But never three.
My stomach twists as I pace the living room. The broken family photo still lies on the floor, glass shards catching the streetlight.
I pick up the frame, flipping it over. Taped to the back is a yellowing Post-it, Vicky's childish scrawl: "I wish Mommy and Daddy would stay with me forever."
The ink is smudged, like she cried while writing it. When was this? Before David got sick? Before the cancer ate him from the inside out, leaving us with nothing but debt and a shattered family?
I suddenly miss Vicki so much, I really, really miss her.
Where could she have gone? I asked all of Vicky's classmates, friends, and teachers, but none of them had seen her!
I'm starting to panic! Where has she gone? The neighborhood has never been particularly safe!
I dial 911 with trembling fingers. The operator's voice is bored, mechanical.
"Missing person? Age fifteen. Na:me Victoria Cheney. Last seen... three days ago, here at 42nd and Elm." She asks for a description, and I rattle off Vicky's features: dark hair, green eyes, the snake tattoo on her forearm.
"We'll file a report," the operator says. "Someone might contact you." I know what that means: don't hold your breath. In this neighborhood, missing kids are as common as broken streetlights.
I throw on a jacket and storm outside, only to freeze on the sidewalk. Where do I even start? Vicky mentioned a club downtown, but I don't remember the name. Her "friends"—the ones who taught her to smoke, to shoplift—their faces are blurs in my memory. I've been too busy working, too exhausted to care, and now my daughter is gone, maybe hurt, maybe...
No. I can't think like that.
I kept holding on to the fantasy that she would come back on her own, unwilling to invade her privacy. But now, I can't afford to worry about that anymore.
Back in her room, I flip through her dresser drawers, searching for clues. Dirty clothes, empty makeup palettes, a crumpled flyer for a rave last week. Under the bed, I find a shoebox filled with Polaroids: Vicky and Margaret at the mall, Vicky with a boy I don't recognize, Vicky holding up a sign that says "EDEN GAME CHAMPIONS."
The same blue-green poster from the other night. I yank it out from under a pile of magazines. ENTER THE GAME. WIN YOUR DREAM.
There's a QR code in the corner. My hands shake as I pull out my phone, scanning the code. It takes me to a website with a loading screen: a glowing garden, snakes coiling around apple trees. Registration closed. Participants selected.
What the hell is this? A game? Vicky mentioned wanting a car, said she found a "way to make money." Is this it? Some online scam?
I collapse onto her unmade bed, burying my face in her pillow. It smells like her—coconut shampoo and something else, something sharp like weed.
"Vicky," I whisper, tears soaking the pillowcase. "Where are you?"
The room spins as I lie there, staring at the ceiling. The posters on the wall—pop stars, anime characters—seem to mock me. I've been so busy fighting to survive that I forgot to live, to be a mother. Now Vicky's gone, and all I have are broken memories and a goddamn poster for a game that might have swallowed her whole.
I don't know how long I lie there, but when the sun peeks through the curtains, my throat is parched, my eyes swollen shut.
I have to go to work. I have to keep moving, even if every step feels like walking through molasses. Maybe Vicky will come home today. Maybe she'll be sitting on the couch when I get back, rolling her eyes at my worrying.
The pills rattle in the bottle as I take my morning dose. I force down a slice of toast, ignoring the mold on the edge. There's no time to buy new bread.
The subway ride is a blur of faces, none of them Vicky's. At the hospital, Mr. Jenkins yells at me again, but his words don't register. Dr. Mann tries to corner me, but I slip away, mind numb.
When my shift ends, I don't go to the bar. I head straight home, praying to a god I stopped believing in years ago. The apartment is as empty as when I left. I dial Vicky's number again, and this time, it goes straight to voicemail. No chirpy message, just a dead tone.
Panic claws at my throat. I grab the poster, the shoebox of Polaroids, and my phone. I need to find Margaret. Maybe she knows something. I look up her number in Vicky's contacts.
But Margaret doesn't know.
I sink to the floor, clutching the poster.
EDEN GAME.