Chicago, September 2018

Rachel sat on a bench on sunlit Navy Pier, watching her mother and her brother walk away. And despite the warmth of the day, the ice in her bones expanded. Her mom’s arm was wrapped around James’s broad shoulders for support.

Kendra had become a shadow of the vibrant, radiant artist she’d been six years ago. Her auburn hair had turned mousy, her rainbow-hued wardrobe replaced by washed out T-shirts and sweatpants, her body as thin as a match, her skin white and clammy. The only daily goal her mom had was to live till the next morning.

The doctor’s appointment that morning had shaken Rachel to the core. “We found a cancerous tumor in your left kidney’s renal tissue, Kendra,” Dr. Khatri had said. “With end-stage renal disease, you could continue to survive on dialysis as you have for the last few years, but since cancer has come into the picture… I’m truly sorry, but my prognosis is that you have at most six months to live. If you don’t get a kidney transplant, that’s the best we can hope for.”

Rachel’s body temperature must have dropped a couple of degrees. “How does she get a kidney?” she’d asked.

“Since we know that your children’s kidneys are not suitable, you need to join the transplant waiting list. The surgery and medication would come to about two hundred thousand dollars. Since you don’t have insurance, there’s nothing we can do even if there is a donor—unless you can raise the funds required.”

Rachel’s fingertips found a snag in the bench’s lacquered wooden panels, and a sharp stab of pain brought her back to the present moment. She pulled out the splinter and released a long, shaky breath. Lake Michigan glittered in the bright sun, blinding passersby, but Rachel stared into space. A soft breeze carried the faint scents of fresh popcorn and cinnamon pretzels.

They had come to Navy Pier after the hospital to distract themselves and think about a solution, but desperation had clung to them like a second skin. Soon, Mom had gotten too warm and James had taken her home.

Rachel had told them she needed to go to work soon, and it didn’t make sense to go all the way back to the suburbs.

The truth was, waitressing was the last thing on her mind. After six years of fear, of waiting for a miracle, and of shattered hope, Rachel’s personal apocalypse breathed down her neck.

The day when the person she was closest to in this world would be gone. Eleven years ago, she had lost the one person who had always made her feel safe and protected—her dad. He had not died, though. Worse.

He’d left.

Rachel remembered how her whole body had ached with the pain of loss. She’d only been eleven years old, but that was when she’d started guarding her heart. Because if anything like that happened to her again, she was afraid she might not recover.

Like if she lost her mother.

Except, this time, Rachel could stop it from happening. All she needed was $200,000. She groaned inwardly at the seeming impossibility of it.

She sure couldn’t make that waitressing. And she wouldn’t pin her hopes on winning the lottery.

The chatter of three old ladies—who must have sat down beside her on the bench while she was lost in thought—made Rachel glance to her right.

“Are you all right, sweetheart?” one of the ladies asked. All three stared at her, knitting frozen in their hands. The three of them looked similar, as if they were sisters. Just the color of their clothes was different: lilac, salad green and baby blue.

Rachel cleared her throat. It had been a long time since anyone had asked if she was all right. “I’m fine.”

The lady sitting closest to her studied her from behind round spectacles. “You don’t look fine to me, though.” She had a European accent. German? “Sometimes, life gives you an answer and you just need to act. You have no idea what adventure lies ahead of you.”

She and the other two exchanged meaningful smiles and began gathering their knitting into their baskets.

“Thanks,” Rachel muttered, bewildered. Who said those things to a complete stranger?

Or had Rachel heard her wrong?

The lady winked at Rachel and all three walked away.

Gold glittered on the bench next to her. The sun reflected from it and hurt her eyes for a moment. Squinting, she glanced sideways at the source of the glimmer.

A golden spindle sat next to her on the bench, looking like something straight out of a fairy tale. What was that children’s story, Sleeping Beauty or something? Rachel turned her head a little to see better.

The spindle had very sharp edges, almost as thin as needles. It was hard to believe this was actually gold, but years spent watching her mother work in the jewelry smithy had trained her eye to know a precious metal when she saw one. The shiny surface was engraved with unending, wavy patterns, interwoven branches of trees, beasts with open jaws and sharp teeth. Viking came to mind.

Rachel swallowed, sweat prickled her nape, and her hand shot to the silver necklace that her mom had made when she was born. Touching the necklace always gave her comfort in times of stress. It had a unique, simple but delicate chain, and on an oval pendant, engraved in elegant handwriting, “Rachel.”

Had the ladies left the spindle behind? She almost got to her feet, ready to run after them and give it back.

But something stopped her. She could take it, and no one would know. It looked like it weighed at least ten ounces. Ten ounces of gold!

Her mind raced, making calculations. Last time she checked for her mom, gold was around $1,200 per ounce. Times ten, that was $12,000!

She was not seriously thinking about stealing! She had been honest her whole life, always doing the right thing. And look where that had gotten her…

The spindle sat at a comfortable enough distance…she could just reach down and take it. Rachel glanced around and saw that there was no one close enough to notice, and she could not see the old ladies at all.

If she were to do this, there would be no way back. She’d be a thief.

But the thought of losing her mother made Rachel’s breath freeze. When her father left, her whole being had hurt—every cell, every hair, every eyelash. Losing her mother would be the end of Rachel.

Rachel shifted closer to the spindle. Her heart beat as if someone tapped a wooden mallet against her chest. She was soaked through from sweat.

Her hand crawled towards the spindle. She could almost feel the cool metal despite the sun.

“God, help me,” she whispered. And with a sinking stomach, she covered the spindle with her hand and yanked it under her jacket.

But as soon as she touched the metal, the world around her disappeared. Her head spun like laundry in a washing machine, her skin hurt, the hair on her whole body stood up, and something sucked her in, as if a tornado had descended just for her.

Through terror and panic, a thought came: Is this my punishment? Am I dying?

And then there was nothing.