Shuddering at thoughts of where I came from, I sit on the edge of the stiff hospital bed and tuck Joey under the covers.

He doesn’t move. He’s so, so pale. He still has all his brown, thick curls, but I can’t help wondering if soon, he won’t even have those. And now, he’s on a ventilator.

He’s fading. I need something to happen, quick. God’s intercession. A miracle. An anonymous benefactor. All of the above.

I look up at the nurses. “What happened?”

“He stopped breathing. But he’s stable, now,” the doughy, kind-faced woman in the blue hospital scrubs says to me as she checks his vitals. “We’re glad your sister was able to get in touch with you, and that you were able to break from your . . . night.”

With that, her eyes sweep over my body.

I must look like a different person. Usually, I’m jeans and sweats, all the way, no make-up. Now, I’m wearing these ungodly five-inch heels, a skirt that bares most of my legs, and enough make-up to classify me as a streetwalker.

Thanks, Talia.

The only good thing about today’s foray into the city was that I was close to Mount Sinai Children’s Hospital, where my eight-year old brother is suffering from the final stages of acute lymphocytic leukemia, so that when my sixteen-year old sister Cara called saying that Joey was in distress, I’d been able to book it to the hospital in mere minutes.

Now, I guess he’s sleeping peacefully, crisis avoided.

I pick up my phone and text Cara: He’s okay.

Cara hadn’t had the easiest time of today. Her twin brother Calvin is camping overnight in Stokes, so she’d been in charge of the four imps, ages two to six. Not exactly an easy thing, but Cara’s good at it, which is why she’s been given more responsibility than any normal sixteen-year old should have. When she’s not in high school? She’s watching the imps, Griffin, Andrew, Tyler and Maisie.

I’d been working nights at the Sunrise Diner, on the corner from our apartment building in Lodi, trying to scrape together the money to at least keep us in the two-bedroom craphole we’d moved into after my parents died. But even now, I’m two months behind on rent. Every time I come home, I consider it a small miracle an eviction notice isn’t tacked to the front door.

Cara was probably trying to wrangle the kids into bed, seeing how it’s after ten and bedtime with the imps is usually a three-hour ordeal which usually ends in the babysitters collapsing in utter exhaustion. She comes back with: Oh, good! I was so worried.

Sweet Cara. She will make an amazing teacher one day, if I can ever find a way to get her to college. She loves children. But of all the kids, Joey has always been her favorite. Easy, smiley, sweet Joey is everybody’s favorite. That’s Joey. Hard to believe only a year ago, he’d been the lead goal scorer for his soccer team. I can just remember the championship game, where he’d scored the winning goal. Mom and dad had been so proud . . .

I snap to before the collected tears can fall from my eyes and type in: I think I’ll stay here overnight, just in case.

Ok, she comes back with.

I set my phone down and look at Joey, his chest rising and falling slowly and rhythmically under his Spiderman pajamas. Then I sit up and, careful not to disturb all the machines beeping and whirring around his little body, lay a small kiss on his forehead.

“Mrs. Brogan?” a voice says behind me, too loud. Not that I worry Joey will wake up; I’d love him to wake up. Now, he just sleeps, most of the day.

I whirl at the strange voice. It’s a younger man I’ve never seen before. Despite his youthful face, he’s almost entirely bald, and his eyes are like two needle-points. My eyes scan the name placard on his starched white coat. It says Dr. Campbell. I blink when I realize what he’s called me.

“It’s Miss Brogan,” I say, coming toward him and shaking his hand. I’m only twenty-one. Having an eight-year old child isn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility for someone my age, maybe, but I’ve never even had a boyfriend. Maybe this make-up and skirt makes me look older? I definitely don’t look motherly, though, that’s for sure. “Joey is my brother.”

“I’m sorry,” he says bluntly, like he’s not. “Where are the child’s parents?”

I shake my head and follow him as he backs out into the corridor, his eyes on my skimpy outfit. He must be thinking what I thought when I put the outfit on: Streetwalker.

He isn’t Joey’s normal oncologist, Dr. Ayers, who has been treating Joey for the past month. She’s kind, warm-hearted, and though Joey hasn’t been his normal, sparkling, eight-year-old self, he seemed to like her. “Our parents passed away in a car accident a year ago.”

He doesn’t offer me apologies for that, which is fine by me, since his last “I’m sorry” didn’t ring true. “So who is the child with?”

I’m annoyed that he says “the child”, just like that, as if he doesn’t have a name. I point at my chest. “Joey is with me. I was legally appointed guardian of all seven of my siblings.”

He raises an eyebrow, and his eyes trail down to my cleavage, which I usually keep under wraps, under a big Columbia sweatshirt, which I was attending before my parents’ death. Now, it’s kind of drafty between my girls. I can only imagine that he must think I’ve been turning tricks in order to make ends meet. He says, “Dr. Ayers told you about your son’s condition.”

I nod.

“You understand that the treatment is needed. And we really can’t delay.”

I nod again.

The treatment he’s talking about, CDLL, is an experimental drug that’s been working wonders in clinical trials. It’s for patients that are too far gone for chemotherapy, and whose bodies can’t withstand the ravages of such a treatment. It’s Joey’s only hope.

And yet as an experimental treatment, it’s not covered by our Medicaid.

Every single treatment costs about the same as some luxury SUVs. And he needs at least twelve of them, from what I hear. Thus, my foray into the Suitor’s Club, today.

He hands me a clipboard with a legal form on it. “This has all the details, which I know have been explained to you at length. If you sign it, we can begin treatment tomorrow.” He pauses and studies me carefully. “It’s advised.”

I know, he’s wondering why I’m dragging my feet. It would be an easy decision if I didn’t have six other kids to think of. But if I sign this paper, it won’t just mean that those other kids’ dreams will suffer. It might mean that my six other siblings will starve to death.

Sometimes, I really wish I had a mother and father to watch over me.

Scratch that. I want that all the time.

I need a guardian angel. I pray for one, every night.

I chew on my bottom lip. “Dr. Ayers said that there might be other options that could—“

“No,” he says finally. “I’ve consulted with other oncologists, Miss Brogan. This is not just Joey’s best chance. It’s his last chance.”

I swallow, the finality of those words ringing in my ears. His last chance.

He leaves me alone, sweeping down the empty white hallway.

I click the pen as I read over the gobbledygook legal language on the form, wiping my eyes as the tears threaten to blur it all. I think of Joey, laughing and smiling. His last chance.

I put the pen to paper and sign my name on the line. We’ll figure it out, I tell myself. My parents dying? Joey dying? That’s the end of the road. Anything short of that is just a bump in the road, one that can be crossed. We will all be fine.

I go back to the hospital bed, looking at Joey, who hasn’t moved. The drugs he’s been on have added on weight, so he’s not the little beanpole he used to be. His cheeks are fat and chipmunk-like, and sores have appeared on his once-creamy skin. I sigh.

Then I look at my phone as the screen lights up.

I realize it’s totally blown up as I palm it and open it up. I have at least twelve messages, all from Talia, my best friend. The last one is: Hello????

I met Talia at Columbia. She was my roommate, my freshman year, and we’ve been inseparable since. She’s always been the sultry, sexy type who never hurt for men. She also never hurt for money, which I didn’t understand. Most of us, attending college, made due with ramen noodles for dinner every night, because we were paying exorbitant tuitions. Even when my parents were alive, I skimped. But Talia was always bringing home take-out from the most extravagant restaurants across the city, and whenever we’d go out, she’d encourage us to live high on the hog and pick up the check for our entire party.

She told me she didn’t have a regular job, so I assumed her family was wealthy. Though I did wonder why she would disappear for a lot of weekend nights, dressed in her sultriest outfits.

It wasn’t until Joey got sick and I confessed to her how up shit’s creek I was that she let me in on her little secret. And then she invited me to come along with her.

I jab in: I’m sorry.

I’d departed the Suitors Club in a rush when I’d gotten Cara’s call, and left Talia alone, trying to decide among the many bids she’d gotten.

Truthfully, I’d been happy to get out, taking deep gulps of air as soon as I’d gotten out into the fresh air of early spring. The place had skeeved me out. All those men, looking for only one thing . . . sex. Talia had told me I could make a killing, especially as a virgin, but I doubted it. I still had dreams of meeting Mr. Prince Charming and him whisking me away on his trusty steed. Nothing about that place looked like a fairytale castle.

It was sleazy. It was gross. And I didn’t care if I had to wait a million tables. It would be better than sacrificing my virginity to some scumbag with money who just wanted me to satisfy some sick sexual fantasy.

How is J, girl? She texted back.

He’s stable, I sent to her. Where are you?

You’ll never believe it. I got two already. Might go for a third, but made a total of $25,000. Not bad for a night’s work!

I swallowed. $25,000. That was serious cash; more than I could make waiting tables for a year. Great, I typed in.

Did you check the app?

I shivered. Truthfully, I was scared to. Talia told me that the way that the club ensured it had the hottest and most exclusive selection of women in the city was by holding auditions. Talia made me the appointment. And so, one Saturday afternoon, a week ago, I arrived at the Suitor’s Club, after a few stiff drinks at the bar next door, to warm myself up to this ridiculous idea. The woman who met me at the front took my name and measurements, then snapped some pictures of me. She’d kept begging me to “show more skin!” “Pout more!” “Give me your sexiest look!” but I must have looked like I was constipated, I was so nervous, despite the alcohol surging through my veins. I thought for sure they’d never choose me. Sexiest woman in NYC, I was not. But Talia insisted that as a bona fide virgin, probably the last one left in the city, I was a shoo-in.

Turns out, she was right. Yesterday afternoon, I’d gotten the call.

I was on.

I thought for sure they’d made a mistake. They’d realize that mistake when I got no bids, and then my Suitors’ Club membership would be permanently revoked. It was only a matter of time. Not that I minded that. In fact, why should I care what those gross, skeevy people thought of me.

I type in: No, I didn’t have a chance to check yet.

Well, what are you waiting for?

I sigh. I can just imagine the high bid being something pathetic, like two cents. If Talia is worth thousands, then I can’t imagine I’ll do better.

But whatever. These are just bids. And the night is over, so there’s nothing to say I have to accept one, though Talia told me if there was a missed connection I could always get in touch with the bidder later and connect for some wild times. Not that I will.

I’ve tried it.

And it’s clearly not for me.

Steeling myself, I click over to the Suitors Club app.

I key in my profile alias, Lavender, which the lady gave me, because she said I was such a sweet little flower, and my password.

Then I scan my profile page.

I’m not really sure what I’m looking at. I should have asked Talia for a tutorial. There is my name, the lame little blurb about me, and this terrible picture which makes me look like a deer in headlights. And then . . . underneath . . . a bunch of profile pictures of other men.

Spanky. Luiz. Edward Cullen . . .

Who are these men? Their profile avatars aren’t real pictures—they’re cartoons. I scan the list . . . there are dozens of names.

I jab that in as a question to Talia. Are all these names under my profile names of men who’ve viewed my profile?

Seconds later: !!! NO! Those are people who’ve bidded!!!!

I suck in a shaky breath.

She comes back again: How many did you get, girl?

I go back and count, then text in: 24.

HOLY SHIT! That’s a record!!!

I swallow. Really? I scan through and tap on one in the middle, a man named Porky Pig. His profile is very mysterious and just has a picture of the cartoon pig, with, I’m filthy rich. T-t-that’s all, folks! I scan down to where it says: BID:

And my jaw drops.

This has to be wrong.

This man has bid twenty-thousand dollars for one night with me.

I swallow again, now finding it hard to breathe. Twenty-thousand dollars would really, really help. But am I willing to give up my virginity for that?

Ugh. No. It’s just too sleazy to think of.

My phone buzzes softly and I realize Talia has texted me a bunch more times. She wants to know how much the bids are for.

I type in: OMG, a man just bid $20,000 for me.

She comes back with: !!! Is that the top bid?

Oh. I hadn’t looked at the top bid. I’m not sure where to find that. I say: How do I know what the top bid is?

It should be at the top of the page. The suitor on the top of the list is the high-bidder.

That makes sense. I click back to the app and scroll up to the top name. Someone named Madd Maxxx. There is a picture of a cartoon rabbit in sunglasses there. Cute.

Then I scroll up further, to the very top of the page. I hadn’t noticed it before, but it says TOP BID:

I stare at the number there. My mouth hangs open.

I find myself counting zeros as the world starts to spin around me.

Then, my whole body numb, I switch to the message to Talia and type in: I can’t breathe.

!!! What’s wrong?

My fingers quiver on the keypad as I type in: One million dollars. Someone bid one million dollars.

A second later, my phone is ringing. Talia.

When I answer, there’s no hello. It’s just her, screaming her head off. “Click accept! Click accept! Click accept!”

I step out into the corridor, a cold sweat breaking out on my body, despite the chilliness in the hospital. “No! I can’t! I mean, I have to think about this.”

“Seriously? Act now, think later,” she tells me, speaking in the mile-a-minute way that is typical of Talia. “Look. All unaccepted bids are cancelled at one AM. You have precisely fifteen minutes before your bid goes poof.”

My jaw is hanging open. One million dollars. For one night?

But I can’t . . . can I? This man, Madd Maxxx, whoever he may be, is a total creep. He just offered to pay a million dollars for one thing… my virginity. He’s probably old. And married. And ugly, with a grotesque hook nose, acne, bad breath, and so much money he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

I check the time. Sure enough, I have thirteen minutes to make a decision.

I type in: I can’t.

Yes, you can. Think of what one million dollars can get you.

I have been thinking of that. One fucking million dollars has made one fucking million thoughts swarm my head in a not-so-logical way. That indecent proposal wouldn’t just pay for Joey, it’d give us a cushion, pay for a place for us to live, maybe even a little of Cara’s college costs. Heck, maybe I could even go back to Columbia for my last year and finish my degree.

Eleven minutes.

But... he’s probably a creep. He wants me just for sex.

Okay, yes, he probably is, she responds. But just do what I do. Close your eyes and pretend it’s Chris Pratt.

Right. I could do that. Plus, what was virginity anyway? Just a stupid social construct to make girls feel bad about their sexuality. I hadn’t been saving myself for that Prince Charming, technically. I just hadn’t met anyone that I’d even wanted to share saliva with, much less a bed. Talia had called me picky, but really, the selection in high school and Columbia hadn’t been all that stellar. Maybe I never would find any man that hit a chord with me. Maybe I was just being stupid.

Believe me. It’ll be worth it! It’ll change your life for the better!

Seven minutes, now.

I open up Madd Maxxx’s profile and stare at that cartoon rabbit. Suddenly, I imagine a man with buck teeth and big ears. An old, fat man with buck teeth and big ears. Bad breath. Ear wax. Dandruff. I think back to the hour I’d spent in that smoky bar, pulling on my too-short skirt and wishing I could be anywhere else. I’d been too nervous. I’d known there were eyes on me, but besides the first few portly, old-enough-to-be-my dad men that had been leering at my cleavage like they wanted to deep-sea dive down there, I hadn’t made eye contact with anyone else. It was too dangerous.

Five minutes.

My eyes scan his profile. He’d written more than Porky. I have a business proposition for the woman that accepts my bid. You must be intelligent and discrete.

Business proposition? So, he doesn’t just want me for one night of sex? I’m confused . . . but also intrigued.

Two minutes.

All right, I text Talia.

So you’re doing it?

I open the app again and click on the bright green ACCEPT BID button. The screen changes, and then it says, BID ACCEPTED. CONGRATULATIONS! THE WINNING BIDDER WILL CONTACT YOU SOON TO ARRANGE A MEETING.

I let out a shuddery breath and click back to the message window with Talia.

Done.