Dark Intentions - Charlotte Byrd Page 0,15

chances of her living another six months are pretty grim.

I get up and pace around the room. My legs feel tense but weak, and I slip on a pair of yoga pants and my lightest jacket and go for a run, mostly to get out of the claustrophobic atmosphere.

I run down my street and around the corner past the diner that's just opening up for all those older people in the neighborhood who like to get their fresh bread and coffee at 5:00 a.m.

This area still has a little bit of old New York to it. There's no suburban sprawl. The houses are small and at least thirty years old, and there's still a sense of community.

There's a deli, a diner, a bar, and a pompom-and-pop grocery store, and a few clothing stores. There are a lot of elderly people who live here, because they can still take the bus or walk to get their groceries and their medications at the local pharmacy.

I run past the bakery, and the smell of fresh bread knocks me back for a moment. I feel around in my jacket and notice that I have brought my wallet.

I'll make a stop here on the way back, but for now I'll just continue to run. I run fast.

I'm not a very good runner, and my side quickly begins to ache. I'm probably breathing all wrong, but my legs still feel good. I like the gust of wind that knocks itself into me, and I like watching my breath make little puffs all around me as I exhale.

Finally, when my lungs feel like they're on fire, I stop, fold in half, and try to catch my breath.

What am I going to do?

Where am I going to get a quarter of a million dollars? I ask myself, shaking my head.

I mean, that's the kind of money that ... Who the hell even has that kind of money?

I try to think of everyone I know. Allison is at the top of the list. The most that I could probably borrow from her is $10,000, but it would be from her credit line and she'd need it back at a high interest rate, mostly because she has a tendency to forget to make payments, and her credit is shot.

If not Allison, then who? I run names in my head as if I'm going through a Rolodex one after the other.

Unfortunately, when you're poor, you happen to only know other poor people, and even if I were to meet a rich person, what would I do? Ask them if I can borrow this money just out of the blue?

What about charities? I say to myself. There are charities that help people. Well, unfortunately as a journalist, I've reported on some for school projects and I discovered that charities have a lot of overhead to pay their employees, however meagerly, so that seems like an unlikely option.

The few medical charities that I have heard about and read about will do things like pay for hospice care and a nurse just in the last months of someone's life, not invest a quarter of a million dollars into an experimental treatment that may or may not work.

I run back home and on the way, stop at the bakery. I buy two loaves of French bread along with some muffins and a bag of bagels. Food has always been the place I turn to when I am in pain.

When Dad was gambling, we lost all of our money and a moving truck came to repossess our furniture.

When Michael died.

Almost every time I've had any sort of breakup.

Unlike my mom, I don't turn to exercise naturally.

I'm more self-destructive than that.

That probably explains why I've been going to Redemption.

When I get back home, I put the baked goods on the dining table and make myself a strong cup of coffee.

I've slept maybe two hours the whole night, and whatever energy jolt I experienced earlier has all but disappeared. Now, I feel like I'm completely drained.

"Oh, wow. Look at all this," Mom says, coming into the kitchen, waking me up.

I raise my head up and feel a strong crick in my neck that suddenly spasms. It's a few hours later because the sun is now streaming in through the window, and I realize that I must have fallen asleep on my arms right here while I was waiting for the coffee to heat up.

"When did you get all this?"

"Oh, I went on a run earlier. Stopped by the